this is hardly the time and place to discuss such a question,”
said Captain Hill, “but I should much like to see more of you, Miss
Wynward! If you have any time at your disposal, will you come over and
see my old mother? She is quite confined to her room, but I know it
would please her to have a quiet talk with you!”

A light glistened in Miss Wynward’s washed-out eyes, and a smile stole
over her countenance. “Do you really mean it, Captain Hill?”

“I never say anything that I do not mean,” he answered, “I am sure both
my parents would be glad to give you their advice, and my dear father,
who is a clergyman, though past an active ministry, may be able to be
of use to you in a more practical way. At anyrate, you will come and
see us. That is a bargain!” and he held out his hand to her again in
farewell. “O! I will--I will, indeed,” exclaimed Miss Wynward, gratefully, “and
thank you so very much for the permission. You have put a little hope
into my life!”

She seized the hand he proffered her, and kissed it, as an inferior
might have done, and then hurried back to the Red House, before he had
had time to remonstrate with her on the proceeding. CHAPTER XIII. When Anthony Pennell received the Baroness’s invitation, penned in the
delicate foreign handwriting of Harriet Brandt, he accepted it at once. Being out of the season, he had no engagement for that evening, but
he would have broken twenty engagements, sooner than miss the chance,
so unexpectedly offered him, of meeting in an intimate family circle,
the girl who appeared to have led his cousin Ralph’s fancy astray. He
pictured her to himself as a whitey-brown young woman with thick lips
and rolling eyes, and how Ralph, who was so daintily particular where
the _beau sexe_ was concerned, could have been attracted by such a
specimen, puzzled Anthony altogether. The knowledge that she had money
struck him unpleasantly, for he could think of no other motive for
Captain Pullen having philandered with her, as he evidently had done. At anyrate, the idea that there was the least chance of allying herself
with their family, must be put out of her head, at once and for ever. Mr. Pennell amused himself with thinking of the scare he should create
at the dinner table, by “springing” the news of Ralph’s intended
marriage upon them, all at once. Would the young lady have hysterics,
he wondered, or faint away, or burst into a passion of tears? He
laughed inwardly at the probability! He felt very cruel over it! He had
no pity for the poor quadroon, as Doctor Phillips had called her. It
was better that she should suffer, than that Elinor Leyton should have
to break off her engagement. And, by Margaret Pullen’s account, Miss
Brandt had been both defiant and insulting to Miss Leyton. She must be
a brazen, unfeeling sort of girl--it was meet that she paid the penalty
of her foolhardiness. It was in such a mood that Anthony Pennell arrived at the Red House at
five o’clock in the afternoon, that he might have the opportunity to
inspect the collection of china that had gained him an entrance there. The Baroness had promised to be home in time to receive him, but he
was punctual and she was not. Harriet Brandt was loitering about the
garden, which was still pleasant enough on fine days in the middle of
September, when the news that Mr. Pennell was in the drawing-room was
brought to her by Miss Wynward. Harriet had been very eager to meet
Anthony Pennell--not because she was pining after his cousin, but
because her feminine curiosity was strong to discover _why_ Ralph had
deserted her, and if he had been subjected to undue influence to force
him to do so. But now that the time had come, she felt shy and nervous. Suppose he, Mr. Pennell, had seen Miss Leyton meanwhile, and heard all
that had taken place between them, when she visited the Red House. And
suppose he should take Miss Leyton’s part! Harriet’s mind was full of
“supposes” as she turned to Miss Wynward and said,

“O! I can’t go and receive him, Miss Wynward! Mr. Pennell has come to
see the Baroness, not me! Cannot you entertain him until she comes
home? She will not be long now!”

“Her ladyship’s last words to me, Miss Brandt, were, that if she had
not returned from the factory by the time Mr. Pennell arrived, you were
to receive him and give him afternoon tea in her stead! I hope you will
do as her ladyship desired!”

“Well! I suppose I must then,” replied Harriet, screwing up her mouth,
with a gesture of dissatisfaction, “but do send in the tea, quickly,
please!”

“It shall be up, Miss Brandt, as soon as I can get back to make it! Mr. Pennell seems a very pleasant gentleman! I wouldn’t mind if I were
you!”

Miss Wynward hurried back to the house, as she spoke, and Harriet
walked slowly over the lawn towards the drawing-room windows. Anthony Pennell, who had been bending over some rare specimens of old
Chelsea, looked up suddenly as she approached, and was struck dumb with
admiration. She had improved wonderfully in looks since she had been in
Europe, though the women who lived with her continually, were slow to
perceive it. Her delicate complexion had acquired a colour like that of
a blush rose, which was heightened by contrast with her dark, glowing
eyes, whilst her hair, by exposure to the rays of the sun, had caught
some of its fire and showed ruddily, here and there, in streaks of
auburn. Her figure, without having lost its lissom grace, was somewhat
fuller, and her manner was altogether more intelligent, and less
_gauche_ than it had been. But the dark eyes were still looking for
their prey, and the restless lips were incessantly twitching and moving
one over the other. She was beautifully dressed that evening--she had
not been in London for a month, without finding a way to spend her
money--and Anthony Pennell, like most artistic natures, was very open
to the influence of dress upon a woman. Harriet wore a frock of the
palest lemon colour, cut quite plain, but perfect in every line and
pleat and fold, and finished off at the throat with some rare lace,
caught up here and there with tiny diamond pins. “By Jove! what a beautiful girl!” was Mr. Pennell’s inward ejaculation
as he saw her drawing nearer the spot where he stood. It was strange
that his first judgment of Harriet Brandt should have been the same
as that of his cousin, Ralph Pullen, but it only proves from what
a different standpoint men and women judge of beauty. As Harriet
walked over the grass, Anthony Pennell noted each line of her swaying
figure--each tint of her refined face--with the pretty little hands
hanging by her side, and the slumbrous depths of her magnificent eyes. He did not, for one moment, associate her with the idea which he had
formed of the West Indian heiress who was bent on capturing his cousin
Ralph. He concluded she was another young friend who might be partaking
of the Baroness’s hospitality.