You have heard of
your great-aunt Dorothy?"
"Yes. I have succeeded to her rooms, to her books. My grandfather says I
remind him of her."
"Dorothy Fairfax never forgave Lady Latimer. They had been familiar
friends, and there was a double separation. Oh, it is quite a romance!
My aunt, Lady Angleby, could tell you all about it, for she was quite
one with them at Abbotsmead and Hartwell in those days; indeed, the
intimacy has never been interrupted. And you know Lady Latimer--you
admire her?"
"I used to admire her enthusiastically. I should like to see her again."
After this there was silence until the drive ended at Hartwell. Bessie
was meditating on the glimpse she had got into the pathetic past of her
grandfather's life, and Mr. Cecil Burleigh and his sister were
meditating upon her.
Hartwell was a modest brick house within a garden skirting the road. It
had a retired air, as of a poor gentleman's house whose slender fortunes
limit his tastes: Mr. Oliver Smith's fortunes were very slender, and he
shared them with two maiden sisters. The shrubs were well grown and the
grass was well kept, but there was no show of the gorgeous scentless
flowers which make the gardens of the wealthy so gay and splendid in
summer. Ivy clothed the walls, and old-fashioned flowers bloomed all
the year round in the borders, but it was not a very cheerful garden in
the afternoon.
Two elderly ladies were pacing the lawn arm-in-arm, with straw hats
tilted over their noses, when the Abbotsmead carriage stopped at the
gate.
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