"Impossible! What a credulous fool I have been to believe her! Your cousin Jocelyn,--do you mean Miss Jill?"
"Yes," I returned, smiling, for a sense of renewed happiness was stealing over me. "The foolish fellow is always following me about to talk of her.
I do believe he is honestly in love with her. He saved her life, and that makes it all the worse."
"All the better, you mean," regarding me gravely. That fixed, serious look made me rather confused.
"Would you mind telling me, Mr. Hamilton," I interposed hurriedly, "what put this absurd idea into your head?"
"It was Etta," he returned, in a low voice. "It was that night when you had been singing to us, and she came home unexpectedly."
"Yes, yes, I remember"; but I could not meet his eyes.
"She told me when we got home that Mr. Tudor was in love with you, and that she believed you were engaged, or that, at least, there was an understanding between you; and she added that if I did not believe her I might watch for myself, and I should see that you were always together."
"Well?" rather impatiently.
"I will beg your pardon afterwards for following Etta"s advice, but I did watch, and it was not long before I came round to her opinion."
"Mr. Hamilton!"
"Wait a moment before you get angry with me again. I never saw you in a pa.s.sion before"; but I knew he was laughing at me. "Etta was certainly right in one thing: I seemed always finding you together."
"That was because I often met Mr. Tudor in the village, and he turned back and walked with me a little; but we always talked of Jill."
"How could I know that?" in rather an injured voice. "Were you talking of Miss Jocelyn in the vicarage kitchen-garden that evening?"
"Probably," was my cool reply; for how could I remember all the subjects of our conversation?
"And when you went to Hyde Park Gate, you were together then,--Leah saw you,--and--" But I could bear no more.
"How could I know that I should be watched and spied upon, and all my innocent actions misrepresented?" I exclaimed indignantly. "It was not fair, Mr. Hamilton. I could not have believed it of you, that you should listen to such things against me. That boy, too!"
"Nonsense!" speaking in his old good-humoured voice, and looking exceedingly pleased. "He is five-and-twenty, and a very good-looking fellow: a girl might do worse for herself than marry Lawrence Tudor."
"But I intend to have him as my cousin some day," was my reply; but at this moment Chatty came in to tell Mr. Hamilton that the boxes were in the cart, and Miss Darrell waiting in the carriage.
"Confound it! I had forgotten all about Etta," he returned impatiently.
"Well, it cannot be helped: we must finish our conversation this evening." And with a smile that told of restored confidence he went off.
I sat down and cried a little for sheer happiness, for I knew the barrier was broken at last, and that we should soon arrive at a complete understanding. It was hard that he should have to leave me just then; and the thought of resuming the conversation in the evening made me naturally a little nervous. "Supposing I go back to the White Cottage," I thought once; but I knew he would follow me there, and that it would seem idle coquetting on my part. It would be more dignified to wait and hear what he had to say. I should go back to the White Cottage in a day or two.
Gladys came out of her room when she heard the wheels, and proposed that we should go down into the drawing-room. "Poor poor Etta!" she sighed. "I try to pity and be sorry for her, but it is impossible not to be glad that she has gone. I want to look at every room, Ursula, and to realise that I am to have my own lovely home in peace. We must send for Lady Betty; and Giles must know about Claude. I do not believe that he will be angry: oh no, nothing will make Giles angry now."
Max found us very busy in the drawing-room. I was just carrying out a work-box and a novel that belonged to Miss Darrell, and Gladys had picked up a peac.o.c.k-feather screen, and a carved ivory fan, and two or three little knick-knacks. "Take them all away, Ursula dear," she pleaded, with a faint shudder; but as she put them in my arms there were Max"s eyes watching us from the threshold.
I saw her go up to him as simply as a child, and put her hands in his, and as I closed the door Max took her in his arms. The peac.o.c.k screen fell at my feet, the ivory fan and a hideous little Chinese G.o.d rolled noisily on the oilcloth. I smiled as I picked them up. My dear Max and his Lady of Delight were together at last. I felt as though my cup of joy were full.
Max remained to luncheon, but he went away soon afterwards. Gladys must rest, and he would come again later in the evening. I was rather glad when he said this, for I wanted to go down to the White Cottage and see Mrs. Barton, and I could not have left the house while he was there. Yes, Max was certainly right: it would be better for him to come again when Mr. Hamilton was at home.
I made Gladys take possession of her favourite little couch in the drawing-room, but she detained me for some time talking about Max, until I refused to hear another word, and then I went up to my own room, and put on my hat.
I thought Nap would like a run down the road,--and I could always make Tinker keep the peace,--so I went into the stable-yard in search of him.
He was evidently there, for I could hear him barking excitedly. The next moment a young workman came out of the empty coach-house, and walked quickly to the gate, followed closely by Nap, jumping and fawning on him.
"Down, down, good dog!" I heard him say, and then I whistled back Nap, who came reluctantly, and with some difficulty I contrived to shut him up in the stable-yard. There seemed no man about the premises. Then I hurried down the road in the direction of the village: my heart was beating fast, my limbs trembled under me. I had caught sight of a perfect profile and a golden-brown moustache as the young workman went out of the gate, and I knew it was the face of Eric Hamilton.
My one thought was that I must follow him, that on no account must I lose sight of him. As I closed the gate I could see him in the distance, just turning the corner by the Man and Plough; he was walking very quickly in the direction of the station. I quickened my steps, breaking into a run now and then, and soon had the satisfaction of lessening the distance between us; my last run had brought me within a hundred yards of him, and slackened my pace, and began to look the matter in the face.
I remembered that the London train would be due in another quarter of an hour; no doubt that was why he was walking so fast. I must keep near him when he took his ticket. I had no fear of his recognising me; he had only seen me twice, without my bonnet, and now I wore a hat that shaded my face, and my plain gray gown was sufficiently unlike the dress I had worn at Hyde Park Gate. I had a sudden qualm as the thought darted into my mind that he might possibly have a return-ticket; but I should know if he got into the Victoria train, and I determined on taking a ticket for myself.
I had a couple of sovereigns and a little loose silver in my purse. I had a.s.sured myself of this fact as I walked down the hill. As soon as the young workman had entered the booking-office, I followed him closely, and to my great relief heard him ask for a third-cla.s.s ticket for Victoria.
When he had made way for me I took the same for myself, and then, as I had seven minutes to spare, I went into the telegraph-office and dashed off a message to Gladys.
"Called to town on important business; may be detained to-night. Will write if necessary."
As I gave in the form I could hear the signal for the up train, and had only time to reach the platform when the Victoria train came in.
The young workman got into an empty compartment, and I followed and placed myself at the other end. I had no wish to attract his notice; the ill success of my former attempt had frightened me, and I felt I dared not address him, for fear he should leave the train at the next station.
Some workmen had got in and were talking noisily among themselves. I did not feel that the opportunity would he propitious.
When we had actually left Heathfield I stole a glance at the young man: he had drawn his cap over his eyes, and seemed to feign sleep, no doubt to avoid conversation with the noisy crew opposite us; but that he was not really asleep was evident from the slight twitching of the mouth and a long-drawn sigh that every now and then escaped him.
I could watch him safely now, and for a few minutes I studied almost painfully one of the most perfect faces I had ever seen. It was thin and colourless, and there were lines sad to see on so young a face; but it might have been a youthful Apollo leaning his head against the wooden wainscotting.
Once he opened his eyes and pushed back his cap with a gesture of weariness and impatience. He did not see me: those sad, blue-gray eyes were fixed on the moving landscape; but how like Gladys"s they looked!
I turned aside quickly to hide my emotion. I thought of Gladys and Mr.
Hamilton, and a prayer rose to my lips that for their sake I might succeed in bringing the lost one back.
The journey seemed a long one. All sorts of fears tormented me. I remembered Mr. Hamilton was in London: there was danger of encountering him at Victoria. It was five now: he might possibly return to dinner. I could scarcely breathe as this new terror presented itself to me, for if Eric caught sight of his brother all would be lost.
When the train stopped, I followed the young workman as closely as possible. As we were turning in the subterranean pa.s.sage for the District Railway, my heart seemed to stop. There was Mr. Hamilton reading his paper under the clock: we actually pa.s.sed within twenty yards of him, and he did not raise his eyes. I am sure Eric saw him, for he suddenly dived into the pa.s.sage, and I had much trouble to keep him in sight: as it was, I was only just in time to hear him ask for a third-cla.s.s single to Bishop"s Road.
I did not dare enter the same compartment, but I got into the next, and now and then, when our train stopped at the different stations, I could hear him distinctly talking to a fellow-workman, in a refined, gentlemanly voice, that would have attracted attention to him anywhere.
Once the other man called him Jack, and asked where he hung out, and I noticed this question was cleverly eluded, but I heard him say afterwards that he was in regular work, and liked his present governor, and that the old woman who looked after him was a tidy, decent lady, and kept things comfortable. My thoughts strayed a little after this. The sight of Mr.
Hamilton had disturbed me. What would he think when Gladys showed him my telegram? He had promised to finish our conversation this evening.
I felt with a strange soreness of longing that I should not see Gladwyn that night. My absence of mind nearly cost me dear, for I had no idea that we had reached Bishop"s Road until Eric pa.s.sed my window, and with a smothered exclamation I opened the door: happily, the pa.s.sengers were numerous and blocked up the stairs, so I reached the street to find him only a few yards before me.
My patience was being severely exercised after this, for Eric did not go straight to his lodgings. He went into a butcher"s first, and after a few minutes" delay--for there were customers in the shop--came out with a newspaper parcel in his hand. Then he went into a grocer"s, and through the window I could see him putting little packets of tea and sugar in his pocket.
His next business was to the baker"s, and here a three-cornered crusty loaf was the result. The poor young fellow was evidently providing his evening meal, and the sight of these homely delicacies reminded me that I was tired and hungry and that a cup of tea would be refreshing. Eric carried his steak and three-cornered loaf jauntily, and every now and then broke into a sweet low whistle that reminded me of his nickname among his mates of "Jack the Whistler."
We were threading the labyrinth of streets that lie behind Bishop"s Road Station; I was beginning to feel weary and discouraged, when Eric stopped suddenly before a neat-looking house of two stories, with very bright geraniums in the parlour window, and taking out his latch-key let himself in, and closed the door with a bang.
I stalked carelessly to the end of the street, and read the name. "No. 25 Madison Street," I said to myself, and then I went up to the door and knocked boldly. My time had come now, I thought, trying to pull myself together, for I felt decidedly nervous.
A stout, oldish woman with rather a pleasant face opened the door; her arms were bare, and she dried her hands on her ap.r.o.n as she asked me my business.
"Your lodger Jack Poynter has just come in," I said quietly. "I have a message for him. Can I see him, please?"