She walked across the room and passed close to the dog, who turned his head and, growling savagely, watched her as she moved. Then she came back and sat down quite near him, and leaning down arranged the buckle on her shoe, whilst Jill stood perfectly still, filled with admiration for the old woman, who was not acting out of bravado but simply tackling the situation in the only possible way.
Once let a bulldog on guard know that you do not want to take away or touch his carefully-guarded possessions, and that you are not in the least bit afraid of him, and all will be well.
“Come over here, Jill.”
Jill, who had removed her veil and satin mantle, crossed the room and sat down on a stool at the elder woman’s feet. She took the wrinkled little old hand and patted it; then they sat still and silent, hand in hand, waiting for the maids’ return.
What was there for these women to make such a fuss about? Cannot a girl be allowed to sit out perhaps a dance, or a whole cotillon even, without the world coming to an end?
What made them all three fret, and fuss, and fear?
The great love they had one for the other, perhaps, for love has been known to pierce the mental fog we each one of us weave about ourselves and so allow us to help one another, sometimes even at a great distance.
Maria Hobson knocked and opened Jane Coop’s door, who rose and came quickly towards her; and as her grace’s maid involuntarily glanced round the room, old Nannie peered over her shoulder with the hope of seeing her young mistress in the corridor.
“Isn’t she here?”
“My young lady? No; she’s dancing.” She paused, and put out her hand. “Isn’t she dancing? Isn’t she?”
Why did Jane Coop fear as the others feared, and why did her bonny face go suddenly white?
Because she, too, was one of the happy, limited throng who know what real love is.
“My mistress would like to speak to you, Miss Coop.”
“What’s wrong? Maria Hobson, tell me what’s wrong.”
Hobson allowed the unlicensed use of her Christian name to pass unnoticed; she closed the door behind her and spoke gently, as she took the other woman’s hand and shook it, which was her somewhat masculine way of showing sympathy.
“I don’t know; none of us know that anything is wrong. As Mike O’Rafferty used to say. ’We may be afther barking in the wrong back-yard,’ but I had a dream, Jane Coop. Sit you down whilst I’m telling it you.”
They sat on the sofa, hand in hand, strangely like their mistresses as they sat in the sitting-room near the suspicious bulldog.
At the end of the story of the dream, Jane Coop rose.
“Thank you, Miss Hobson. I thought my young mistress was dancing. I was hoping she was forgetting a bit, with the music and young folk. There’s one thing, I shall know where she has gone to. My dearie wouldn’t break her word. Come along.” She opened the door and turned and spoke over her shoulder.