"Oh, dear, no," responded Mr. Moore cheerfully. "All the worst of the work is over now, as far as the sh.e.l.l is concerned; the walls will run up in no time. It is a big house, but there are plenty of men on it, and all materials ready. It is after the sh.e.l.l is done that the real tedious work commences."

"You mean after the roof is on?"

"Yes. The interior decorations are the chief thing about this house.

The outside is not much."

"When do you expect the sh.e.l.l will be finished?" asked Rachel, in fear and trembling.

"Some time in the course of the summer--within the next two or three months probably."

"And the roof on?"

"Oh, yes; of course the roof on," he replied.

There was a pause; and then she said in a very small, thin voice:

"Thank you, Mr. Moore. I think I must go back now."

He escorted her back to the garden gate, lifted his hat, and bade her good evening; and it struck him suddenly--with far more force than it had struck Beatrice--that she was looking extremely unwell, and not at all like the bright and blooming creature that she was when she went away.

CHAPTER VI.

IN MRS. HARDY'S STORE-ROOM.

Rachel was very young, no doubt, but she was growing rapidly. To all intents and purposes she was at least five years older when she came home from Adelonga than she was when she went there; and the process of development by no means ceased or slackened at that point.

The blossoming of her womanhood had come suddenly, like the blossoming of the almond trees, in one warm burst of spring; but the inner heart, that budded in secret, continued to swell and ripen, in spite of--perhaps because of--the absence of sunshine in her spiritual life.

The physical change in her was noticeable to everybody. Her const.i.tution was much too sound to be easily injured by mental wear and tear; but her health was necessarily affected in a greater or less degree, temporarily, for the better or for the worse, by the more powerful of those mental emotions to which her body was peculiarly sensitive and responsive at all times.

So she lost some of her delicate pinky colour, and her large eyes grew heavy and dreamy, and she looked generally faded and altered, in the dulness of these empty days. She had no more enthusiasm for Toorak life and Melbourne dissipations. She went into no raptures over jewels and dresses, or any pretty things; she had none of the old zest for operas and b.a.l.l.s.

She was quiet, and silent, and preoccupied, moving about the house with a strange new dignity of manner (resulting from the total absence of self-consciousness), a sort of weary tolerance, as if she had lived in it all her life, and was tired of it.

After watching her for a few days, secretly, and in much perplexed anxiety, Mrs. Reade made up her mind that something was seriously wrong, and that it was time for her to interfere to set it right. She went to her mother in the first place for information.

It was eleven o'clock in the morning, and Mrs. Hardy was in her store-room, counting out the day's allowance of eggs to an aggrieved and majestic cook.

The little woman stood by silently, watching the transaction with a smile in her brilliant eyes, thinking to herself what a great mistake it was, if poor mamma could but see it, to insist on an inflexible morality and economy in these petty matters; and when it was completed, after a little acrimonious discussion, she quietly shut the door, and addressed herself to her own business in her customary straightforward way.

"I want to know what is the matter with Rachel," she began, spreading her handkerchief on a keg of vinegar, and sitting down on it deliberately.

Mrs. Hardy mechanically sought repose in the one chair of the apartment, which stood in front of the little table where she was in the habit of making out her accounts.

"I'm sure that is more than I can tell you, my dear. What an insolent woman that is!--if she thinks I am going to let her have the run of my stores, as Mrs. Robinson did, she is very much mistaken."

"Something is wrong with Rachel," proceeded Mrs. Reade calmly; "and I want to find out what it is."

Mrs. Hardy made an effort to smooth her ruffled feathers down.

"I think the child must be fretting for Lucilla and the baby, Beatrice.

She and Lucilla were bosom friends, and she just went wild about the baby--it was quite ridiculous to see her with it. And when she left them she cried as if she were completely heartbroken; and she has never been like herself since. I can't think what else ails her--unless she is out of sorts, and wants some medicine. I did give her some chamomilla yesterday, but it does not seem to have done her any good."

"No," said Mrs. Reade, with a sudden smile, "I don't think it is a case for chamomilla. She is not ill; she is unhappy--anyone can see that.

_You_ can see it, can't you?"

"I'm sure no girl has less cause to be unhappy," protested Mrs. Hardy evasively, in a fretful and anxious tone. "It is very ungrateful of her if she is."

"But what can have caused it? She was all right when she went to Adelonga. Something must have happened while she was there. She is not merely fretting after Lucilla and the baby--oh, no, it is a deeper matter than that. I am afraid--I really am seriously afraid, by the look of things--that it has something to do with Mr. Kingston." Her mother, though silent, was so obtrusively conscious and uneasy that she felt a.s.sured, the moment that she looked at her, of the correctness of her surmise. "Oh, do tell me what has happened!" she continued, eagerly.

"Something has, I know. It is what I have been dreading all along--with these tiresome delays! They ought to have been married out of hand, and then there would have been no trouble."

"If there _is_ anything wrong between them," Mrs. Hardy reluctantly admitted, "it is--I must say that for Rachel, though she is very trying with her silly childishness--it is Mr. Kingston's doings."

"Of course," a.s.sented Mrs. Reade, promptly.

"It was on the night of the ball. He rather neglected Rachel--the first time I ever knew him to do it--and he flirted in that foolish way of his--with Minnie Hale. You know Minnie Hale?--a great, fat, giggling creature--quite a common, vulgar sort of girl--not in the least _his_ sort, one would have imagined. I don't wonder that Rachel was offended; I was extremely vexed with him myself, for he did it so openly--everybody noticed it. It was so bad, really, that the man that horrid girl was engaged to, Mr. Lessel, broke off with her on account of it. That will show you. She was a great deal worse than he was, of course. But he went great lengths. Perhaps he had been taking too much wine," she sighed, plaintively.

"No," said Mrs. Reade. "He has plenty of faults, but _that_ is not one of them."

"Rachel was deeply hurt and shocked," Mrs. Hardy proceeded. "Naturally, for it was not a thing she had been used to, poor child. She took it very much to heart--so much that she wanted, like Mr. Lessel, to break off her engagement there and then." Here Mrs. Hardy went into details of poor Rachel's unsuccessful struggle for deliverance. "But of course I reasoned with the foolish child," she added conclusively; "I talked her out of _that_."

Mrs. Reade sat very still, tracing patterns on the floor with the point of her parasol.

"And did they have a quarrel?" she asked, vaguely. She was evidently thinking of something else.

"No. There was a coolness, of course, but--oh, no, I am sure they did not quarrel. He has seemed anxious to make up for it, and she has not shown any temper or resentment. But things have been uncomfortable if you can understand--very unsatisfactory and uncomfortable--ever since. I think she was disappointed in him, and cannot get over it. I have been hoping that it was all right, and that she was only unsettled and dispirited about leaving Adelonga. But now you mention it--yes, now I think of it--I'm afraid she is brooding over that other trouble still.

Foolish child! she lives in a world of romantic ideals, I suppose."

"_Why_ did Mr. Kingston flirt with Minnie Hale?" asked Mrs. Reade, looking up at her mother impressively.

"Oh, my dear, you know him as well as I do."

"You think he was worn out with being good?"

"He _has_ been good, Beatrice--very good--ever since his engagement."

"Yes, he has. But if he had had a mind to misbehave, I don't think his duty to Rachel would have stopped him. The fact is, since his engagement he has never wanted anyone but her. I have watched him closely, and wonderful as it seems, he has never shown the slightest disposition to flirt beyond the stage of pretty speeches--not even when she was away--not even with Sarah Brownlow."

"It is a great pity," sighed Mrs. Hardy. "I wish they were safely married."

"And at the worst of times," the younger lady proceeded thoughtfully, regardless of the interjection, "he was fastidious in his choice--he liked someone who was either pretty or clever, or decidedly attractive in some way. I never knew him take any notice of a girl of _that_ sort before."

"There is no accounting for men's tastes, my dear."