“When venom’d gossip shows her poison-fangs, the watchword is,
‘Beware!’”
But as soon as breakfast was over, I had a private confabulation with
Mr. Garth, in which he fully approved of my intention of going to see
Madame Kominski at once.
“Let me see,” he said by-and-by. “There is a train from Moorbye at
12:52. This would enable you to reach Kensington by 4:30, a good time, I
should imagine, for catching the lady at home. If you fail to see her
this evening, you can either return here, or put up at a hotel which I
can recommend for the night. If you do not come to an arrangement, you
will return and stay here, of course, until something else turns up.
Should you, on the other hand, find the appointment one that you can
accept, your future proceedings will be arranged between Madame Kominski
and yourself.”
“The 12:50 train will suit me admirably,” I said. “I shall have time to
pay a visit to Bobby and Teddy. They, at least, will remember me with
affection.”
“Then suppose you get ready at once, Dorrie. I will go with you, as I
want to see John Page. He has had frequent touches of rheumatism lately,
and I promised to take him some liniment. I can talk to him while you
interview your pets.”
“Miss Morris is anxious to go to the Grange. But I would much rather go
without her this morning.”
“My wife will amuse her. I can take her, together with her sister, to
have a look at Courtney Grange to-morrow.”
Half an hour later the vicar and I were walking briskly toward my old
home, and I was feeling happy at the mere sight of the waving
corn-fields and smiling hedge-rows which stretched on our right hand, in
vivid contrast to the semi-barrenness and sober but quaint coloring of
the moorland on our left. I found it impossible to pass all the floral
treasures which greeted me by the way, and my heart presently grew heavy
at the thought that it might possibly be years before I was able to
gather another bunch of wild flowers on my native heath. When the
chimneys of the Grange came in sight, I had a fierce battle to fight
with my avowed determination not to enter its doors again, and I found
that sentiment was, after all, a much stronger passion in me than
wounded pride.
“Oh, I must run in and see Martha,” I exclaimed, when at last we emerged
from the long avenue. “Do wait a minute here, while I run round to the
back and give her a surprise.”
Suiting the action to the word, I left the good-natured vicar to his own
devices, while I hurried round to the kitchen entrance, anxious to see
Martha at her usual avocations, in order that I might fancy this hurried
visit to my home more homelike. Somewhat to my disappointment, Martha
was not half so surprised as I had fancied she would be.
“Eh! is that you, Miss Dora?” she exclaimed, dropping the potato she was
peeling, as I impetuously sprang into the kitchen and gave her a warm
greeting. “I thought maybe you would come to-day; and you’ll find your
room quite ready for you.”
“But how could you know I was coming?” I inquired blankly. “I never sent
you word that you might expect me.”
“No, but Mr. Courtney did. We got a letter from him this morning. Here
it is.”
I took the letter, which she pulled out of her pocket for me, and read
it, feeling as if all the romance were knocked out of me again.
“Prepare Miss Dora’s room. If she is not already at the Grange, you may
expect her soon.”
That was all, and I could not help a slight feeling of vexation at its
tenor. True, it implied that my father had not really intended to banish
me altogether. But it also evinced such a determination to ignore any
mental distress in which I might be submerged that it convinced me more
than ever of the hopelessness of ever expecting my father to show the
least spark of true affection for me.
“And how is John?” I asked soberly.
“John! Why, John’s pretty much as usual, I think,” said Martha, with a
sharp touch of asperity in her voice. “But somehow he seems to be
everlastingly complaining of late, and it’s ‘Oh, my leg! Oh, my back!’
nearly all day long.”
“Then he must be really ill.”
“Not he. He’s just taken a lazy fit, and wants pampering, that’s all.”
“Which he isn’t likely to get from the wife o’ his buzzim,” broke in
John’s voice at this juncture.
“Oh, John, I quite forgot!” I exclaimed penitently. “The vicar is
waiting for you on the steps. He has got some liniment for you.”
John hobbled off at once, calling out, as he did so: “There’s a letter
waiting for you upstairs, Miss Dora.”
Aroused to sudden curiosity, I at once ran up to my old room, and almost
cried with joy to see Lady Elizabeth’s beloved handwriting. If my
father’s missive lacked sympathy, his wife’s made ample amends for it,
for it breathed of nothing but love and anxious care for my well-being.
It had been taken for granted by my stepmother that I would come
straight to the Grange and wait quietly there for the return of the rest
of the family. I resolved to perpetuate her comforting delusion as long
as I could, and forthwith wrote her a letter, in which I thanked her
warmly for all the nice messages she sent me, and assured her that she
need have no uneasiness about me, as I should make myself quite
comfortable while at Moorbye.
Then I sallied out to the stables, having wondered already how it was
that I had seen nothing either of Bobby or of Teddy. Even as I got quite
up to the stable door they were both still invisible, and a vague
feeling of impending calamity seized me, as the old familiar whistle, to
which my erstwhile playmates had been wont to respond so joyously,
failed to evoke the usual boisterous signs of recognition from either of
them. I certainly did hear a feeble whine, but could hardly credit it to
be Bobby’s usually clamorous voice.
“Oh, my God!” I thought dumbly, “is a new trouble about to befall me?”
Then I walked slowly forward, feeling a leaden weight on limbs and brain
alike. With quaking heart and anxious eyes I peered in the direction of
Teddy’s old stall, and when I failed to see the dear little ugly
companion of my happiest frolics, I only felt the mist which covered my
eyes to be the outcome of a dreary conviction which had been stealing
over me ever since I emerged from the house. For a moment a deadly
faintness almost overpowered me, so that I had to seize the nearest
available support, in order to prevent myself from falling. While I
still stood, feeling half dazed with a newly added sense of misery, I
once more heard the feeble imitation of a whine which had already
attracted my attention. Then, looking down, I saw, painfully rolling
toward me, a little round body that must be, could be, nothing but my
darling Bobby. Hastily stepping forward, I stooped and lifted the
object, and oh! how can I ever describe what I felt when, taking it to
the light, I discovered it to be none other than my beloved pet! Poor
fellow! he had recognized me, and, though almost at death’s door, had
made a desperate effort to meet me once more.
I sat down with him on my lap and bent over him in an agony of grief.
He, in his turn, fondly licked my fingers and looked at me with a
piteous, all-adoring love shining out of the beautiful eyes which were
already fast glazing over with the last dread film.
“Oh, my darling!” I moaned, as I kissed his dear little head over and
over again. “What have I done that I should lose everything I love? I
would give ten years of my life to see you frisk about me in the old
happy way. Can’t you really get better, now that I have come?”
Did the poor thing understand me, or was he only making a supreme effort
to make me comprehend how glad he was to see me? Perhaps it was both,
for he always was more intelligent than some human beings I have
encountered. Be this as it may, he suddenly rose to his feet, and stood
looking in my face for a moment almost the picture of his old excitable
self, with sparkling eyes and quivering body. Then he gave a sharp, glad
bark, and dropped, lifeless, on the lap of one of the most desolate
human beings on earth.
How long I sat there in my misery I do not know, but was at last
interrupted by the voice of the vicar, who, perceiving what had
happened, asked me no questions, but, gently lifting poor Bobby’s body
into a basket which stood close by, suggested that we should bury him
ourselves before we returned to the vicarage. As one in a dream, I let
him lead me whither he would, and together we went down to the old
orchard, where, presently, my kindly friend took upon himself the office
of grave-digger. Concerning Teddy, I asked no more questions just now,
for I no longer believed him to be alive.
When I had marked Bobby’s resting-place, I turned to John Page, whom,
for the first time, I noticed to be standing near me. “And now,” I said,
my voice still shaken with sobs, “tell me how it is that you never sent
us word that my pets were ill.”
“Indeed, miss, I did,” answered John, with a sympathetic look at my
grief-stricken face. “I sent the master word about everything. You had
only been gone a day or two when Teddy began to fret and go off his
feed. He would seek you in the yard, and in the orchard, and in all
sorts of likely and unlikely places, and when he couldn’t see anything
of you, he would whinny that pitifully that neither Martha nor me liked
to hear him. We used to try to pet him up a bit. But it was no go, and
we could see that if he went on fretting like that things would soon go
wrong with him. Bobby, too, hung his head, and walked about looking the
picture of misery. When you were away at my lady’s place, before, they
both took on considerable. But you were not quite so long away, and it
hadn’t such an effect on them as it’s had this time. It was only last
week that Teddy died, and Bobby has never been out of the stable since.
I have done what I could for him, but anybody could see that he wouldn’t
be here long. The master knew Teddy was dead, and I’m sure I thought you
knew all about it. I buried him just at the foot of the paddock, feeling
that that was where you would have liked to put him, if you had been at
home.”
I couldn’t speak. But I gave John a look which would show him that I
exonerated him from blame and that I was grateful to him for what he had
tried to do for me. Then I walked down to the paddock, to take one last
look at poor old Teddy’s resting-place. And here a fresh idea seized me.
My two pets had been such inseparable friends during life that I felt it
cruel to part them in death, and returned to John, to ask him to bring
Bobby’s body to be finally interred beside that of his friend and
companion. My wish was soon accomplished, and then, without looking back
at the old home even once more, I walked away toward the vicarage,
followed by the vicar, and hardly knowing whether grief at my loss, or
resentment at the callousness which had prevented my father from telling
me the true state of the case, was predominant.
I had not walked far before I was overtaken by Mr. Garth, but there was
very little said between us until we were nearly at the vicarage.
“Did you know that my pony was dead?” I asked him.
“Certainly not,” he replied. “I saw John last week, and he never
mentioned either of your pets, though I do not doubt that he has taken
good care of them. Very likely your father did not wish you to be told
much about them, lest the news should unsettle you.”
“Yes, of course. That is the true explanation of the case. My father was
actuated by tender regard for my feelings, and I ought to feel
proportionately grateful. But, somehow, I don’t feel particularly moved
in the direction of gratitude, and the sooner I am away from the
neighborhood of Courtney Grange the better. I shall not regret my
absence from it now, since my presence near it could only foster painful
memories. The past is dead, and I must let my dead past bury its dead.”
“You have youth and energy on your side, my dear. I predict that in six
months you will yearn for your old home again and be as happy as ever
here.”
“Never! You do not know me, Mr. Garth. My experiences since I went to
London have been such as to develop and increase the latent passions of
my childhood, besides endowing me with others toward which I never
suspected myself to have a leaning. Among the latter are self-reliance,
independence, and firmness of purpose. They alone will forbid my early
return to the Grange.”
“Well, I will not argue the point with you, child, as of course you know
more about the matter than I do. But has it struck you that while we
have been lingering at the Grange, time has been flying, and that you
have missed the 12:50 train for London? You will have to put off your
journey until morning, as the next train from here arrives in London too
late to enable you to call at Madame Kominski’s house this evening.”
“Then what shall I do? How soon can I get there in the morning?”
“If you do not mind rising early, you can leave by the 6:30 A.M. train.
That will land you in Kensington in good time.”
“If you and Mrs. Garth—”
“Pray don’t mention it, child. We are only too happy to do what we can
for you. Oh, there they all are!”
“They” of whom he spoke were Mrs. Garth, Mrs. Marshall and Miss Morris,
who were walking leisurely toward us, their hands full of wild roses and
honeysuckle, which they had been pulling in the hedgerows. Master Vinnie
was skipping alone in front, and having an occasional race with Leo, a
splendid St. Bernard, who looked as wise as any of us.
The whole party looked so handsome, so happy, and so thoroughly
satisfied with their lot in life, that my own isolation and loneliness
struck me more forcibly than ever. I am not sure that I was not going to
give way to another outburst of grief, when I chanced to look up into
Mr. Garth’s face, and saw that the erstwhile sad and sympathetic
expression of his countenance had vanished as magically as do morning
mists before the power of the rising sun. He was smiling at the pleasant
sight which greeted his gaze, and in an instant I was confounded by a
sense of the selfishness of my own conduct. What right had I to obtrude
my private griefs upon my friends? True, they were kind and
sympathizing, but that did not deprive them of their due claim to
consideration, and life does not hold so much happiness for any that one
can afford to exchange the flowers of joy for the withered leaves of
sorrow, even though the sorrow may more closely appertain to another.
I believe that great changes of character may be brought about in
susceptible and highly-strung natures by trifling incidents, and a
suddenly conceived resolve of my own was no particularly noticeable
departure from a somewhat general rule. “If I cannot be happy myself,” I
reflected, “I can at least conduce to the happiness of others by
presenting a bright and cheerful front to the world. And this I will try
to do in future, God helping me.”
It was in conformity with this resolution that I walked smilingly up to
Mrs. Garth and her guests, and apologized for having kept the vicar so
long away from them. Then I challenged Vinnie and Leo to a race, and,
before Mr. Garth had time to conjecture the cause of the abrupt change
in my demeanor, I was scampering down the lane with the delighted boy,
and the no less delighted dog, who instantly entered into the spirit of
the diversion suggested, as did also May Morris, who laughingly
exclaimed that she saw no reason why she should not join in the fun, and
promptly followed in our wake. We had half an hour of scampering and
laughter, and returned to the vicarage breathless, rosy, and hungry.
Perhaps Leo could hardly be accused of being either breathless or rosy,
but he was certainly as ready for his midday meal as any of us. As for
myself, I noted with surprise that my effort to appear cheerful and
happy had recoiled upon myself, and that I no longer felt so miserable
as I had done earlier in the day.
“You’re just a dear, jolly girl,” said May to me, as we were
rehabilitating our toilet, previous to going down to lunch. “I’m awfully
sorry you are going away so soon, and I’m awfully afraid lest those
horrid Russians should lock you up in one of their dungeons. Just fancy
how awfully horrid it would be if they were to hang you up by the
thumbs, and flog you with a bundle of knouts!”
“My dear girl,” I said, unable to refrain from laughter at May’s limited
and slangy vocabulary, as well as at her hazy and mixed-up notions of
things Russian. “It is not by any means sure that I am going to Russia,
and even if I do go, it is of no use anticipating unlikely
contingencies.”
“Perhaps not,” retorted May sapiently. “But one may as well be prepared
for possibilities, and then they don’t overtake one as a surprise. And,
after all, there are perhaps worse things than the knout.”
“Hardly,” I rejoined. “The knout so generally proves an instrument of
death that it must be regarded as the extreme punishment.”
“But suppose they banish you to Siberia?”
“I don’t see any probability of such a disaster, as, if I am lucky
enough to secure the appointment I am seeking, I shall be very careful
about what I say and do. And now—suppose we go downstairs?”
After luncheon the vicar announced his intention of paying some visits
which he owed to a few of the poorer of his parishioners. “I do not care
to inflict myself upon them in the forenoon,” he added. “They are
generally busy, either cleaning or cooking, and do not care to be
bothered by callers before they have had time to don themselves up a
little.”
“But why should you trouble yourself to visit them at all, when you have
a curate who could look after your poorer parishioners?” asked Mrs.
Marshall. “The vicar of St. Dungaree’s Church only associates with, or
speaks personally to, the well-to-do people of his parish. He never goes
to any house of which the rent is less than seventy pounds per annum.”
“Then I suppose he does not think people with small incomes possess
souls?” I ejaculated.
“Oh, dear, yes! of course they have souls. But you can’t attach as much
importance to their conversion as if they were in a position to be of
service to the church, as rich people can be, and a curate’s attentions
are as much as they can expect.”
“Then we may conclude that the objects of a curate and of a vicar are
entirely dissimilar. The curate wishes to save souls. The vicar is
anxious to wheedle money out of his parishioners. Fie, Mrs. Marshall,
how can you so depreciate Mr. Garth’s calling?”
“Good gracious! Miss Courtney. It’s you who are doing it, not me. I
never thought of the matter in the light you are throwing upon it. And I
am sure Mr. Garth understands my meaning very well.”
“To be sure I do,” responded the vicar, good-humoredly. “No doubt the
vicar of St. Dungaree’s is swayed by motives which outsiders do not
understand. For my own part, I am quite convinced of my own unfitness
for a city living, as I have what some would consider inveterately
democratic notions. For instance, I am far happier when chatting with
old Mrs. Murfree, who has been bedridden for six years, and who
nevertheless earns a precarious livelihood by knitting and coarse
needlework, than when conversing with Lady Smythe, who imagines herself
to be the greatest lady in the county. And I would much rather have a
talk and a smoke with old Grey, our cobbler-poet, than be invited out to
dine with the lord of the manor.”
“And that reminds me,” put in Mrs. Garth, “that Lady Smythe and her
daughters are coming this afternoon for a game of tennis. The
Worthingtons will probably be here, too, so I hope you will try to get
back before they leave.”
The vicar, having promised to use his best endeavors in that direction,
now hurried off. I would rather have been excused from meeting the
coming guests, if I had consulted only my own inclination; and it
required a little mental struggle on my part to induce me to persevere
just then in my lately-formed resolve to be as cheerful as possible at
all times. May Morris, superficial and shallow as she seemed, was a
bright, merry girl, who did nothing to foster either lugubriousness or
reserve, and with whom it would have been difficult for me to maintain a
silent mood for any length of time. Vinnie, too, seemed to have taken
immensely to me since the morning and eagerly importuned us for another
romp. Thus it happened that when the Smythe family drove up to the door
they were rather scandalized by seeing two young women, who were
evidently utterly regardless of appearances, scampering along a
sidewalk, laughing and panting, followed by a fleet-footed child, who
was pelting them with daisies which had a few hours before bespangled
the tennis lawn, and by an excited St. Bernard, whose occasional tugs
had utterly ruined the fresh appearance of their gowns.
“There now,” I said at last. “I really must sit down a bit. Vinnie,
hadn’t you better run in and ask nurse to sponge your hands and face,
before any visitors see you? I think I must go in also and straighten my
hair.”
“That’s just how I feel,” said May, so we all adjourned, in order to
present a better appearance by-and-by.
An hour later both courts on the vicarage tennis lawn were occupied with
players, most of whom wielded their racquets in such a way as to
indicate considerable practice in the health-giving pastime upon which
they were now engaged. The two brothers Worthington, sons of a local
landed proprietor, were worthy partners of the Misses Smythe, and Mr.
Graham, the doctor’s assistant—whose aider and abettor in all social
functions at which they could both be present was Mr. Wix, our
curate—was so evidently smitten by May’s charms that I caught myself
wondering whether he would be able to supplant the fascinating actor.
Mrs. Marshall had offered to let me play in her stead, but a reaction
from my previous excitement had set in, and I craved quiet and repose.
Leaving her, therefore, to a game which I knew she would enjoy, I
strolled further away from the house, and presently sat down on the
forked arm of an apple-tree which grew just behind the hut that had been
erected for the accommodation of those who preferred to watch the game
rather than take an active part in it. The branch of the tree hung so
low that I had no difficulty in fixing myself comfortably upon it, and I
soon found the repose of my situation so conducive to drowsiness that I
think I must have gone to sleep for a little while.
At any rate I was roused by the sound of voices which I could not
localize for a few moments, as I had not noticed the approach of the
speakers, who were evidently now sitting in the hut close to me. My own
name fell on my ears with somewhat startling distinctness.
“Miss Dora Courtney,” said a voice which I recognized as that of Lady
Smythe, the wife of an ex-wine merchant who had chanced to be the mayor
of a neighboring town on the occasion of the Queen’s Jubilee, and had
consequently dropped into a knighthood. “Miss Dora Courtney surprises me
by her behavior.”
“In what way, Lady Smythe? And who is the young lady, that she should
evoke interest in _you_?” asked another voice, which was strange to me,
but which had such a liberal allowance of flattering unction in it, and
which laid such emphasis on the second person singular that I set its
owner down for a toady of the first water at once.
“My dear Miss Grindle,” was the reply, “I am certainly exclusive. But I
am able to take interest in many people whose position in society
scarcely warrants notice from me. Otherwise you would hardly find me
mixing indiscriminately with people at parties like this. It pleases
commoners to be noticed by persons of title, and I pride myself upon
being looked upon as more condescending than the rest of the nobility
hereabouts.”
“Oh, you’re just an angel! If only the Mountmerlyns were like you.”
“Ah, yes! poor things! I feel sorry for them. What’s the use of their
asthmatic old earldom, without money to keep it up? Such a struggle as
they must have! And, between you and me, they’re dying to know Sir
Robert and myself, but are overawed by a sense of the great difference
in our position.”
“You mean—Lady Smythe?”
“We are so rich, and they are so poor. No wonder they are afraid of
intruding upon us.”
“And this Miss Courtney?—”
“To be sure, we were talking of Miss Courtney. Well, she was brought up
at Courtney Grange, and has a sister and brother who are perfectly
lovely, strange as it may seem when you look at her plain face. I
believe they pride themselves upon being a county family, but they were
a very poverty-stricken lot until the father secured for his second wife
a rich widow, the daughter of the Earl of Greatlands. Then one startling
announcement followed another. Lady Elizabeth’s brother, the heir to the
earldom, became engaged to the beautiful Miss Courtney. Then the wedding
was put off because the old earl was to be married to the ugly Miss
Courtney, the one who is here now. While all society was opening its
eyes in amazement at this freak of the old earl, it was startled by the
news of his death on his wedding-morning.”
“How shocking! And had the marriage taken place?”
“How could it? This girl would then have been the Countess of
Greatlands.”
“Poor thing! What a dreadful disappointment for her.”
“Yes, you may well say so. And that is what surprises me so about her.
She seems to be quite happy and merry. Look how she was running about
the garden when we came—a perfect tomboy.”
“So she was. It’s really very indecent of her, when one comes to think
of it. She ought to keep herself as quiet as if she were really a
widow.”
“H’m! widows! I don’t think much of them. They are a flighty lot. But
what do you think people are saying about the ‘Greatlands Romance,’ as
it is called?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. You see, I have been abroad, and—”
“And you can’t afford to buy the newspapers. Yes, I know all about that.
Well, they say that the earl’s son—that is, the present earl, and his
intended bride, Miss Belle Courtney, were furious when they heard of the
old gentleman’s infatuation, and that they swore the marriage should
never take place. One of the servants overheard a desperate quarrel
between the two sisters, in which the elder vowed all sorts of horrible
things. After that it was queer, to say the least, that the poor old
man, who had gone to bed the night before quite healthy and happy,
should be found to be dead when his valet went to rouse him on his
marriage morning.”
“Good heavens! why, they must have murdered him!”
“Well, it certainly looks like it. They vowed he shouldn’t get married,
and he didn’t live to get married. Of course, the other couple, now that
all obstacles have been swept out of their path, will get married soon
and share the wealth and title. But I wouldn’t like to stand in their
shoes.—Oh, here is Mrs. Garth! Mrs. Garth, we have just been saying what
a good thing it is for poor Miss Dora Courtney that she can be so
cheerful after all her troubles.”
“Yes, she bears up wonderfully, poor child. But I have not seen her for
some time. I thought she was perhaps in here with you. Where will you
have your tea? Here, or in the drawing-room?”
“I think I would rather go indoors for a while. I want to look at some
new prints Mr. Garth was telling me about.”
A few minutes later the hut had changed occupants, and May Morris, hot
and excited after a victorious game, was pouring tea for the tennis
players out of an urn which a servant had placed on the table, while the
young men were handing the bread and butter plates round, amid a chorus
of laughter and merry rapartee. I alone sat unobserved, lonely, and now
once more thoroughly miserable, heedless of aught else save my own
bitter reflections, and feeling as incapable of moving as I had done
during the conversation between Lady Smythe and Miss Grindle.
That the tragedy of my life should be talked about did not surprise me.
But that my own dreadful suspicions should have found an echo in the
breasts of others was to me a most horrible revelation, which created in
me so great a revulsion of feeling as to paralyze my energies _pro tem_.
I could do nothing for a while but sit and wonder vaguely what would be
the end of it all. Would the conviction of my sister’s guilt spread from
one to another until the authorities felt bound to interfere, with the
object of arriving at a complete solution of the mystery? Should I have
to give evidence? And would Lady Elizabeth be called upon to witness
against her brother and her stepdaughter? Would the name of both
families be dragged through the mire of the criminal courts, and be
gloated over by pothouse politicians in polemical discussions _in re_
the immorality of the aristocracy? And, horror of horrors! suppose
things were to come to the worst, was it possible that my beautiful
sister, the pride of her father’s heart, and one of my darling mother’s
children, could be sentenced to a shameful death! A murderer’s death is
not more shameful than his crime, we know; but, alas! how many hearts
bear witness to the agony inflicted on friends and relatives by the
mandates of justice. It would kill Lady Elizabeth if the case were
brought to trial, and this reflection was itself enough to strengthen my
determination to avoid publicity henceforth. My very presence, it
seemed, was sufficient to set the tongues of conjecture and suspicion
wagging. My temporary absence might perhaps help people to forget the
existence of myself and my history.
For the future, if I would avoid a crisis, I had better be seen and
heard as little as possible; and this reflection made me so feverishly
anxious to quit the country that I sprang from my seat in excitement and
hurried toward the house as if thereby I could hasten the interview
between Madame Kominski and myself. As I might have expected, I was
intercepted on my way and besieged by inquiries as to where I had been
hiding myself. My pale face and heavy eyes indorsed my plea of the
desire of seclusion on the score of a violent headache, and I was
allowed to go to my room, where Mrs. Garth soon followed me with a cup
of tea and words of sympathy. Left alone once more, I meditated
earnestly as to my future proceedings, finally coming to the conclusion
that for the sake of Jerry and Lady Elizabeth, if not for the sake of my
father and Belle, I must never divulge aught that could harm Belle, but
must do all in my power to prevent the suspicions of others from being
fostered.
In spite of my desire to appear as cheerful as possible, I felt myself
unequal to the task of going downstairs again that afternoon. Evening
found me able to appear more sociable, and the next morning saw me,
primed with good wishes and affectionate “good-bys” from my dear good
friends, Mr. and Mrs. Garth, both of whom had got up to escort me to the
station, en route for Kensington, where I arrived in due course.
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