He turned to Elfrida, his face pale and miserable. He hardly knew
what he was saying.
"He is coming--Ambert, I mean. He will ask you to go and see
the houses with him."
"Is that all?" Elfrida looked amused.
"He is going to ask you to marry him."
"Is _that_ all!" She laughed now, merrily. Her lovely little
face, that was so infantile, yet so strong and so determined
beneath all its youth and sweetness, seemed now slightly mocking.
"Don't go with him," entreated Blount passionately. All in a
moment the youth of his own face seemed to die from it. He looked
strong and earnest. His eyes were lit with a fire she had not
thought them capable of. She looked at him strangely for awhile.
Then she smiled.
"Why should I not?" she asked gaily. She had quite recovered
herself. Ambert was very close now, and she turned and smiled at
him--a smile of encouragement.
He came up and gave her the cup she had asked for, not noticing
Blount even by a bare nod. He made a point of being rude to
Blount. She drank the coffee, and then consented to go with him
to the vineries. She rose, her small, graceful figure, slender as
an elf's, looking even more fragile than usual in her pale gown,
and moved a step or two forward with Ambert at her side.
Blount rose too. The very bitterness of death seemed on him now.
She was going--going from him for ever.
At that moment Elfrida turned her graceful neck, and stopped and
held out her hand to him. The little trifler was true to her
calling.
"Won't you come too, Mr. Blount? Do."
There was actual entreaty in her eyes. Blount would have refused
her request but for that look. As a fact, Elfrida felt the
proposal from Ambert was imminent, and though she desired it, she
wilfully determined to put it off, as women sometimes will.
Blount rose, and, regardless of Ambert's insolent air went with
her towards the houses.
Miss Firs-Robinson laughed; she was having a right royal revenge.
"Elfrida's good to the poor, too; in fact, she's good to every
one--except perhaps"--thoughtfully--"young men."
"To me," said Mrs. Greatorex spitefully, "she appears the very
kindest girl I ever knew to young men, and, indeed, to old men,
and _all_ men. She seems to have no other thought than for them."
"Just so. I said she was a flirt; but when she's married to
Ambert she'll be cured of that."
"When she _is_," said Mrs. Greatorex with emphasis and a peculiar
smile.
Miss Firs-Robinson might have gone on again, adding more fuel to
the fire, but a little rush of people out of the tent near them
distracted her attention. Dicky Browne was leading, but was hard
pressed by Agatha and Mrs. Poynter and a few others.
"What is it, Agatha?" asked Mrs. Greatorex, as the girl reached
her.
"Sparks!" gasped Mr. Browne. "He says he wants to take us again."
"So we're flying--flying for our lives," said Dicky. "Stop us
at your peril." He looked back. "Oh lawks, here he is!" said he;
whereupon they all took to their heels again and disappeared into
a bit of wood close to them.
Agatha was last; she turned aside, and, separating herself from
the others, ran lightly up a little path that led towards a
tangle of ferns and young trees--mere saplings. She knew the
place well, and knew it to be solitary. No one would go there
to-day, and she wanted to be alone to think. Half an hour ago
Dillwyn had been called away to see a poor child in the village
whose little hand had been badly scalded. He had passed Agatha
when going, and had told her he would be back again in an hour or
less. Without him the day seemed dull, and the thought of
escaping from every one, of sitting alone in that small retreat
until his return, was good to her. She wouldn't confess to
herself that the idea of her getting away from Dr. Darkham had
its charm too. She clung to the other thought. She could see the
road by which Jack--she had grown to think of him as Jack--
would return. Indeed, his shortest way would be straight through
here. She told herself she was going to sit here and watch for
his coming; and out of such telling no shame came to her heart.
She loved him, and he loved her. And though he had not spoken,
she believed he was waiting for her, until his prospects were
brighter, surer. She laughed to herself over that. As if she
cared about his prospects! She cared for nothing on earth but him
himself--his dear, _dear_ self.
She had gained her shelter now, and stood looking towards the
road. Two of the young saplings were quite big boys now, and very
tall for their age. They towered over _her,_ at all events. They
stood both together, and she stood between them, always with her
beautiful face looking towards the road; and she twined her arms
round these younglings, and so supported herself. All her
thoughts were given to Dillwyn. So engrossed were they, indeed,
that she heard no footstep behind her--knew of no approach,
until the voice she hated above all others sounded on her ear.
....
She felt she was as pale as death as she turned to confront him.