On Monday and Tuesday an interesting experiment which she was conducting
under Carus claimed Tims's whole attention, except for the evening
hours, which were dedicated to Mr. Fitzalan. But she wrote to say that
Mildred might expect her to tea on Wednesday. On Wednesday the post
brought her a note from Mildred, dated Tuesday, midnight.
"DEAR TIMS,--I am afraid you will not find me to-morrow
afternoon, as I am going out of town. But do go to tea with
Tony, who is just back from the sea and looking bonny. He is
such a darling! I always mind leaving him, although of
course I am not his mother. Oh, dear, I am so sleepy, I
hardly know what I am saying. Good-bye, Tims, dear. I am
very glad you are so happy with that nice Mr. Fitzalan of
yours.
Yours,
M. B. S."
So far the note, although bearing signs of haste, was in Mildred's usual
clear handwriting; but there was a postscript scrawled crookedly across
the inner sides of the sheet and prefixed by several flourishes:
"Meet me at Paddington 4.30 train to-morrow. Meet me.
M."
Another flourish followed.
The note found Tims at the laboratory, which she had not intended
leaving till half-past four. But the perplexing nature of the
postscript, conflicting as it did with the body of the letter, made her
the more inclined to obey its direction.
She arrived at Paddington in good time and soon caught sight of Mildred,
although for the tenth part of a second she hesitated in identifying
her; for Mildred seldom wore black, although she looked well in it.
To-day she was dressed in a long, black silk wrap--which, gathered about
her slender figure by a ribbon, concealed her whole dress--and wore a
long, black lace veil which might have baffled the eyes of a mere
acquaintance. Tims could not fail to recognize that willowy figure, with
its rare grace of motion, that amber hair, those turquoise-blue eyes
that gleamed through the swathing veil with a restless brilliancy
unusual even in them. With disordered dress and hat on one side, Tims
hastened after Mildred.
"So here you are!" she exclaimed; "that's all right! I managed to come,
you see, though it's been a bit of a rush."
Mildred looked around at her, astonished, possibly dismayed; but the
veil acted as a mask.
"Well, this is a surprise, Tims! What on earth brought you here? Is
anything the matter?"
"Just what I wanted to know. Why are you in black? Going to a funeral?"
"Good Heavens, no! The only funeral I mean to go to will be my own. But,
Tims, I thought you were going to tea with Tony. Why have you come
here?"
"Didn't you tell me to come in the postscript of your letter?"
Mildred was evidently puzzled.
"I don't remember anything about it," she said. "I was frightfully tired
when I wrote to you--in fact, I went to sleep over the letter; but I
can't imagine how I came to say that."
Tims was not altogether surprised. She had had an idea that Mildred was
not answerable for that postscript, but Mildred herself had no clew to
the mystery, never having been told of Milly's written communication of
a year ago. She sickened at the possibility that in some moment of
aberration she might have written words meant for another on the note to
Tims.
Tims felt sure that Milly wished her to do something--but what?
"Where are you going?" she asked. "What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to stay with some friends who have a house on the river, and
I'm going to do--what people always do on the river. Any other questions
to ask, Tims?"
"Yes. I should like to know who your friends are."
Mildred laughed nervously.
"You won't be any the wiser if I tell you." And in the instant she
reflected that what she said was true. "I am going to the Gorings'."
The difference between that and the exact truth was only the difference
between the plural and the singular.
"Don't go, old girl," said Tims, earnestly. "Come back to Tony with me
and wait till Ian comes home."
Mildred was very pale behind the heavy black lace of her veil and her
heart beat hard; but she spoke with self-possession.
"Don't be absurd, Tims. Tony is perfectly well, and there's Mr. Goring
who is to travel down with me. How can I possibly go back? You're
worrying about Milly, I suppose. Well, I'm rather nervous about her
myself. I always am when I go away alone. You don't mind my telling them
to wire for you if I sleep too long, do you? And you'd come as quick as
ever you could? Think how awkward it would be for Milly and for--for the
Gorings."
"I'd come right enough," returned Tims, sombrely. "But if you feel like
that, don't go."
"I don't feel like that," replied Mildred; "I never felt less like it,
or I shouldn't go. Still, one should be prepared for anything that may
happen. All the same, I very much doubt that you will ever see your poor
friend Milly again, Tims. You must try to forgive me. Now do make haste
and go to darling Tony--he's simply longing to have you. I see Mr.
Goring has taken our places in the train, and I shall be left behind if
I don't go. Good-bye, old Tims."
Mildred kissed Tims's heated, care-distorted face, and turned away to
where Goring stood at the book-stall buying superfluous literature. Tims
saw him lift his hat gravely to Mildred. It relieved her vaguely to
notice that there seemed no warmth or familiarity about their greeting.
She turned away towards the Metropolitan Railway, not feeling quite sure
whether she had failed in an important mission or merely made a fool of
herself.
She found Tony certainly looking bonny, and no more inclined to break
his heart about his mother's departure than any other healthy, happy
child under like circumstances. Indeed, it may be doubted whether a
healthy, happy child, unknowing whence its beatitudes spring, does not
in its deepest, most vital moment regard all grown-up people as
necessary nuisances. No one came so delightfully near being another
child as Mildred; but Tims was a capital playfellow too, a broad
comedian of the kind appreciated on the nursery boards.
A rousing game with him and an evening at the theatre with Mr. Fitzalan,
distracted Tims's thoughts from her anxieties. But at night she dreamed
repeatedly and uneasily of Milly and Mildred as of two separate persons,
and of Mr. Goring, whose vivid face seen in the full light of the window
at Hampton Court, returned to her in sleep with a distinctness
unobtainable in her waking memory.
On the following day her work with Sir James Carus was of absorbing
interest, and she came home tired and preoccupied with it. Yet her
dreams of the night before recurred in forms at once more confused and
more poignant. At two o'clock in the morning she awoke, crying aloud: "I
must get Milly back"; and her pillow was wet with tears. For the two
following hours she must have been awake, because she heard all the
quarters strike from a neighboring church-tower, yet they appeared like
a prolonged nightmare. The emotional impression of some forgotten dream
remained, and she passed them in an agony of grief for she knew not
what, of remorse for having on a certain summer afternoon denied Milly's
petition for her assistance, and of intense volition, resembling prayer,
for Milly's return.