The face at the window was that of a young girl of about two-and-twenty.
It would be hard to say whether Stephen Davenant was pleased or annoyed
by this apparition. That he was surprised there could be no doubt, for
he almost dropped the candle in his astonishment, and fumbled at the
lock of the window for some moments before he could open it.
"Laura!" he exclaimed, "can it be you? Great Heavens! Impossible!"
With a little gasp of relief and suppressed excitement, the girl stepped
into the room, and leaned upon his arm, panting with a commingling of
weariness and fear.
"My dear Laura," he said, still holding the candle, "how did you come
here? Why----"
"Oh, Stephen, is it really you? I was afraid that I had made some
mistake--that I had come all this way----"
"You do not mean to say you have come all the way from London
alone--alone!"
"Yes, I have come all the way from London. Do not be angry with me,
Stephen. I--I could not wait any longer. It seemed so long! Why did you
leave me without a word? I did not know whether you were alive or dead.
Three weeks--think, three weeks! How could you do it?"
"Hush! hush! Do not speak so loud," he whispered. "Did anyone see you
come in?"
"No one. I have been waiting in the shrubs for--oh, hours! I saw the
visitors go away--an old gentleman and a young one--and I saw your
shadow behind the blind," and she pointed to the window. "I have been
outside waiting, and dreading to knock in case you should not be alone."
"You--you saw my shadow?" he said, with an uneasy smile. "Did you see--I
mean, what was I doing?"
"I did not see distinctly; I was listening for voices. Oh, Stephen, I am
so weary!"
He drew a chair for her, and, motioning her to sit, mixed a glass of
brandy-and-water, and stood over her holding her wrist and looking down
at her with an uneasy smile.
"Now," he said, taking the glass from her, "tell me all about it--how
you came, and why? Speak in a whisper."
"You don't need to ask me why, Stephen," she said, leaning forward and
laying her hand upon his arm, her dark eyes fixed on his half-hidden
ones. "Why did you leave me so long without a word?"
"I will tell you directly," he answered. "Tell me how you came--alone!
Great Heaven!"
"Alone, yes; why not? I was not afraid. I came by the train."
"But--but----" he said, with a little flush and a shifting glance, "how
did you know where I was?"
"You would never guess! You do not deserve that I should tell you. Well,
I followed Slummers!"
"Followed Slummers!" he echoed, with a forced smile.
"Yes, I met him in the street; you are going to ask me why I did not ask
him where you were," she broke off with a smile and a shake of her head.
"Because I knew he would not tell me. Stephen, I do not like that man,
and he does not like me. Why do you trust him so?"
"You followed Slummers--well?"
"To the station. I was behind him when he took his ticket, and I took
one for the same place. I was quite close behind him, but he did not see
me. I got into the train at the last moment, and I followed him from the
station here."
"My dear Laura," he murmured, soothingly; "how rash, how thoughtless!"
"Was it?" she said. "Perhaps it was. I did not stop to think."
"But now--now what are you to do?"
"Don't be angry with me, Stephen, now I _am_ here. You must tell me what
I am to do." Then her eyes wandered round the house. "What a large
house! Is it yours, Stephen?"
"Eh?" he said, starting slightly. "I--I--don't know--I mean it was my
uncle's. I was going to write to-night and tell you where I was, and why
I did not write before."
"Why didn't you?" she said, with gentle reproach.
"Because," he replied, "I could not--it was impossible. I could not
leave the house, and could not trust the letter to a servant. My uncle
has been very ill: he--he--lies dead up-stairs."
"Up-stairs! Oh, Stephen!"
"You see," he exclaimed reproachfully, "that I have a good excuse, that
I have not desert--left you without a word for no cause."
"Forgive me, Stephen, dear!" she murmured, penitently. "Do not be angry
with me. Say you are glad to see me now I have come."
"Of course I am glad to see you, but I am not glad you have come, my
dear Laura. What am I to do with you? I am not alone here, you know. The
house is full of servants; any moment someone may come in. Think of the
awkward position in which your precipitancy has placed me--has placed
both of us!"
"I never thought of that--I did not know. Why did you not tell me you
were with your uncle? Oh, Stephen, why have you hidden things from me?"
"Hidden things?" he echoed, with ill-concealed impatience. "I did not
think that it was worth telling. I did not know that I was coming--I was
fetched suddenly. Now that I come to think of it, I told Slummers to
call and tell you."
"And he forgot it--on purpose. I hate Slummers!"
"Poor Slummers!" murmured Stephen. "Never mind him, however. We must
think now of what is to be done with you. You--you cannot stay here."
"Can I not? No, I suppose not. I can go back," she added, with a touch
of bitterness.
"My darling," he said, coaxingly, "I am afraid you must go back. There
is an up-train--the last--in half an hour."
The girl leaned back and clasped her hands in her lap.
"I am very sorry," he said, grasping her arm; "but what can I do? You
cannot stay here. That's impossible. There is only one inn in the place,
and your appearance there would arouse curiosity, and--oh, _that_, too,
is quite impossible! My poor Laura, why did you come?"
"Yes," she said, slowly, "it was foolish to come. You are not glad to
see me, Stephen."
He bent over her and kissed her, but she put him from her with a touch
of her hand, and rose wearily.
"I will go," she said. "Yes, I was wrong to come. Tell me the way," and
she drew her jacket close.
"Don't look so grieved, dear," he murmured. "What am I to do? If there
was any place--but there is not. See, I will come with you to the
station. We shall have to walk, I am afraid; I dare not order a
carriage. My poor child, if you had only foreseen these difficulties."
"Do not say any more," she interrupted coldly. "I am quite convinced of
my folly and am ready to go."
"Sit down and wait while I get my hat. We must get away unobserved.
Suspicious eyes are watching my every movement to-night. I can't tell
you all, but I will soon. Sit down, my darling; I will not be gone a
moment. If anyone comes to the door, step through the window and conceal
yourself."
Unlocking the door noiselessly he went out, turning the key after him.
Barely a minute elapsed before he was in the room again.
Warm though the night was he put on an overcoat and turned up the collar
so that it hid the lower part of his face.
Locking the door after him, he came up to the table, poured out another
glass of brandy-and-water, and got some biscuits.
"Come," he said, "you must eat some of these. Put some in your pocket.
And you must drink this, my poor darling, or you will be exhausted."
She put back the glass and plate from her with a gesture of denial.
"I could not eat," she said. "I do not want anything, and I shall not be
exhausted. Let us go; this house makes me shudder," and she moved to the
window and passed out.
"Laura, my dear Laura," murmured Stephen, in his most dulcet tones, "why
are you angry with me?"
"I am not angry with you," she said, and the voice, cold and
constrained, did not seem the same as that in which she had greeted him
a quarter of an hour ago. "I am angry with myself; I am filled with
self-scorn."
"My dear Laura," he began, soothingly, but she interrupted him with a
gesture.
"You are quite right; I was wrong to come. You have not said so in so
many words, but your face, your eyes, your very smile have told me so
plainly."
"What have I said?"
"Nothing," she answered, without hesitation, and with the same air of
cold conviction. "If you had said angry words, had been harsh and
annoyed openly, and yet been glad to see me, I could have forgiven
myself, but you were not glad to see me. If I had been in your
place--but I am a woman. Don't say any more. Is the station near?"
"My dear Laura," murmured Stephen for the third time, and now more
softly than ever, "more must be said. I am anxious, naturally anxious,
to learn whether this--this sudden journey can be concealed."
It was quite true, he was anxious, very anxious--on his own account.