"I"ve summat on," he said; "good-night."
The sound of children"s voices came from the bar. The little ones were going home.
"Good-night, missy, and thank you." It was a woman"s voice.
"Good-night, Mercy," cried the children.
Drayton was opening the door.
"Think again," said Hugh Ritson. "You run no risk. Eleven forty-five prompt will do."
CHAPTER IV.
When Drayton went out, Hugh Ritson walked into the bar. The gossips had gone. Only the landlady was there. The door to the room opposite now stood open.
"Mrs. Drayton," said Hugh, "have you ever seen this face before?"
He took a medallion from his pocket and held it out to her.
"Lor"s a mercy me!" cried the landlady; "why, it"s her herself as plain as plain--except for the nun"s bonnet."
"Is that the lady who lodged with you at Pimlico--the mother of Paul?"
"As sure as sure! Lor"s, yes; and to think the poor young dear is dead and gone! It"s thirty years since, but it do make me cry, and my husband--he"s gone, too--my husband he said to me, "Martha," he said, "Martha--""
The landlady"s garrulity was interrupted by a light scream: "Hugh, Hugh!"
Mercy Fisher stood in the door-way, with wonder-stricken eyes and heaving breast.
In an instant the poor little soul had rushed into Hugh Ritson"s arms with the flutter of a frightened bird.
"Oh, I knew you would come--I was sure you would come!" she said, and dried her eyes, and then cried again, and then dried them afresh, and lifted her pouting lips to be kissed.
Hugh Ritson made no display. A shade of impatience crossed his face at first, but it was soon gone. He tried to look pleased, and bent his head and touched the pale lips slightly.
"You look wan, you poor little thing," he said, quietly. "What ails you?"
"Nothing--nothing, now that you have come. Only you were so long in coming, so very long."
He called up a brave word to answer her.
"But you see I keep my word, little woman," he said, and smiled down at her and nodded his head cheerfully.
"And you have come to see me at last! All this way to see poor little me!"
The mute weariness that had marked her face fled at that moment before a radiant smile.
"One must do something for those who risk so much for one," he said, and laughed a little.
"Ah!"
The first surprise over, the joy of that moment was beyond the gift of speech. Her arms encircled his neck, and she looked up at his face in silence and with brightening eyes.
"And so you found the time long and tedious?" he said.
"I had no one to talk to," she said, with a blank expression.
"Why, you ungrateful little thing! you had good Mrs. Drayton here, and her son, and all the smart young fellows of Hendon who came to drink at the bar and say pretty things to the little bar-maid, and--"
"It"s not that--I had no one who knew you," she said, and dropped her voice to a whisper.
"But you go out sometimes--into the village--to London?" he said.
"No, I never go out--never now."
"Then your eyes are really worse?"
"It"s not my eyes. But, never mind. Oh, I knew you would not forget me.
Only sometimes of an evening, when the dusk fell in, and I sat by the fire all alone, something would say, "He doesn"t want me," "He won"t come for me." But that was not true, was it?"
"Why, no; of course not."
"And then when the children came--the neighbor"s children,--and I put the little darlings to bed, and they said their prayers to me, and I tried to pray, too--sometimes I was afraid to pray--and then, and then,"
(she glanced round watchfully and dropped her voice) "something would say, "Why didn"t he leave me alone? I was so happy!""
"You morbid little woman! You shall be happy again--you are happy now, are you not?" he said.
Her eyes, bleared and red, but bright with the shafts of love, looked up at him in the dumb joy that is perfect happiness.
"Ah!" she said, and dropped her comely head on his breast.
"But you should have taken walks--long, healthy, happy walks," he said.
"I did--while the roses bloomed and the dahlias and things, and I saved so many of them against you would come, moss roses and wild white roses; but you were so long coming and they withered. And then I couldn"t throw them away, because, you know, they were yours; so I pressed them in the book you gave me. See, let me show you."
She stepped aside eagerly to pick up a little gilt-edged book from the table in the inner room. He followed her mechanically, hardly heeding her happy prattle.
"And was there no young fellow in all Hendon to make those lonely walks of yours more cheerful?"
She was opening her book with nervous fingers, and stopped to look up with blank eyes.
"Eh? No handsome young fellow who whispered that you were a pretty little thing, and had no right to go moping about by yourself? None?
Eh?"