CHAPTER II.

It was not until he had been absent more than a year that Mrs. Purling appeared to relent.  She began to yearn after her son; she missed him and was disposed to be reconciled, provided he would but meet her half-way.  At first she sent olive-branches in the shape of munificent letters of credit over and above his liberal allowance; then came more distinct overtures in lengthy epistles, which grew daily warmer in tone and plainly showed that her resentment was passing rapidly away.  These letters of hers were her chief pleasure in life; she prided herself on her ability to wield the pen.  When, instead of a few curt sentences in brief acknowledgment of his letters, his mother resumed her old custom of filling several sheets of post with advice, gossip, odds and ends of news, mixed with stray scraps of wisdom culled from Martin Tupper, Harold began to hope that the worst was over and that he would soon be forgiven in set form.

And he was right.  Pardon was soon extended to him, not quite unconditional, but weighted merely with terms which—­Mrs. Purling thought—­no sensible man could hesitate to accept.

She only asked him to settle in life.  He must marry some day—­why not soon?  Not to anybody, of course,—­he must be on his guard against foreign intriguing sirens, who would entangle him if they could,—­but to some lady of rank and fashion, fitted by birth and breeding to be the mother of generations of Purlings yet to be.  This was the condition she annexed to forgiveness of the past; this the text upon which she preached in her letters week after week.  The doctrine of judicious marriage appeared in all she wrote with the unfailing regularity of the red thread that runs through all the strands of Admiralty rope.

Harold smiled at the reiteration of these sentiments; smiled, but he had misgivings.  Herein might be another source of disagreement between his mother and himself.  Would their respective opinions agree as to the style of girl most likely to suit him?  Then he began to consider what style of girl his mother would choose; and while he was thus musing there came a missive which plainly showed Mrs. Purling’s hand.

“I have been at Compton Revel for a week—­”

“I wonder,” thought Harold, when he had read thus far, “why they asked her there?  My dear old mother must have been in the seventh heaven of delight.  She always longed to be on more intimate terms with Lady Calverly.”

“I have been at Compton Revel for a week,” his mother said, “and met there a Miss Fanshawe, one of Lord Fanshawe’s daughters, who seemed to me quite the nicest girl I have ever known.  I took to her directly; and without conceit I may be permitted to say that I think she took quite as readily to me.  We became immense friends.  She was at such pains to be agreeable to an uninteresting old woman like myself that I feel convinced she has a good heart.  I confess I was charmed with her.  It is not only that she is strikingly handsome, but her whole bearing and her style are so distinguished that she might be descended from a long line of kings—­as I make no doubt she is.