Tired and sullen after the journey home from the seaside, Mrs. Cross
kept her room. In the little bay-windowed parlour, Bertha Cross and
Rosamund Elvan sat talking confidentially.
"Now, do confess," urged she of the liquid eyes and sentimental accent.
"This is a little plot of yours--all in kindness, of course. You
thought it best--you somehow brought him to it?"
Half laughing, Bertha shook her head.
"I haven't seen him for quite a long time. And do you really think this
kind of plotting is in my way? It would as soon have occurred to me to
try and persuade Mr. Franks to join the fire-brigade."
"Bertha! You don't mean anything by that? You don't think I am a danger
to him?"
"No, no, no! To tell you the truth, I have tried to think just as
little about it as possible, one way or the other. Third persons never
do any good in such cases, and more often than not get into horrid
scrapes."
"Fortunately," said Rosamund, after musing a moment with her chin on
her hand, "I'm sure he isn't serious. It's his good-nature, his sense
of honour. I think all the better of him for it. When he understands
that I'm in earnest, we shall just be friends again, real friends."
"Then you are in earnest?" asked Bertha, her eyelids winking mirthfully.
Rosamund's reply was a very grave nod, after which she gazed awhile at
vacancy.
"But," resumed Bertha, after reading her friend's face, "you have not
succeeded in making him understand yet?"
"Perhaps not quite. Yesterday morning I had a letter from him, asking
me to meet him in Kensington Gardens. I went, and we had a long talk.
Then in the evening, by chance, I saw Mr. Warburton."
"Has that anything to do with the matter?"
"Oh, no!" replied Miss Elvan hastily. "I mention it, because, as I told
you once before, Mr. Warburton always likes to talk of Norbert."
"I see. And you talked of him?"
"We only saw each other for a few minutes. The thunder-storm came
on.--Bertha, I never knew any one so mysterious as Mr. Warburton. Isn't
it extraordinary that Norbert, his intimate friend, doesn't know what
he does? I can't help thinking he must write. One can't associate him
with anything common, mean."
"Perhaps his glory will burst upon us one of these days," said Bertha.
"It really wouldn't surprise me. He has a remarkable face--the kind of
face that suggests depth and force. I am sure he is very proud. He
could bear any extreme of poverty rather than condescend to ignoble
ways of earning money."
"Is the poor man very threadbare?" asked Bertha. "Has his coat that
greenish colour which comes with old age in cheap material?"
"You incorrigible! As far as I have noticed, he is quite properly
dressed."
"Oh, oh!" protested Bertha, in a shocked tone. "Properly dressed! What
a blow to my romantic imagination! I thought at least his coat-cuffs
would be worn out. And his boots? Oh, surely he is down at heel? Do say
that he's down at heel, Rosamund!"
"What a happy girl you are, Bertha," said the other after a laugh. "I
sometimes think I would give anything to be like you."
"Ah, but you don't know--you can't see into the gloomy depths, hidden
from every eye but my own. For instance, while here we sit, talking as
if I hadn't a care in the world I am all the time thinking that I must
go to Mr. Jollyman's--the grocer's, that is--as we haven't a lump of
sugar in the house."
"Then let me walk with you," said Rosamund. "I oughtn't to have come
worrying you to-day, before you had time to settle down. Just let me
walk with you to the grocer's, and then I'll leave you at peace."
They presently went forth, and walked for some distance westward along
Fulham Road.
"Here's Mr. Jollyman's," said Bertha. "Will you wait for me, or come
in?"
Rosamund followed her friend into the shop. Absorbed in thought, she
scarcely raised her eyes, until a voice from behind the counter replied
to Bertha's "Good-morning"; then, suddenly looking up, she saw that
which held her motionless. For a moment she gazed like a startled deer;
the next her eyes fell, her face turned away; she fled out into the
street.
And there Bertha found her, a few yards from the shop.
"Why did you run away?"
Rosamund had a dazed look.
"Who was that behind the counter?" she asked, under her breath.
"Mr. Jollyman. Why?"
The other walked on. Bertha kept at her side.
"What's the matter?"
"Bertha--Mr. Jollyman is Mr. Warburton."
"Nonsense!"
"But he _is_! Here's the explanation--here's the mystery. A grocer--in
an apron!"
Bertha was standing still. She, too, looked astonished, perplexed.
"Isn't it a case of extraordinary likeness?" she asked, with a grave
smile.
"Oh, dear, no! I met his eye--he showed that he knew me--and then his
voice. A grocer--in an apron?"
"This is very shocking," said Bertha, with a recovery of her natural
humour. "Let us walk. Let us shake off the nightmare."
The word applied very well to Rosamund's condition; her fixed eyes were
like those of a somnambulist.
"But, Bertha!" she suddenly exclaimed, in a voice of almost petulant
protest. "He knew you all the time--oh, but perhaps he did not know
your name?"
"Indeed he did. He's constantly sending things to the house."
"How extraordinary! Did you ever hear such an astonishing thing in your
life?"
"You said more than once," remarked Bertha, "that Mr. Warburton was a
man of mystery."
"Oh, but how _could_ I have imagined--! grocer!"
"In an apron!" added the other, with awed voice.
"But, Bertha, does Norbert know? He declared he had never found out
what Mr. Warburton did. Was that true, or not?"
"Ah, that's the question. If poor Mr. Franks has had this secret upon
his soul! I can hardly believe it. And yet--they are such intimate
friends."
"He must have known it," declared Rosamund.
Thereupon she became mute, and only a syllable of dismay escaped her
now and then during the rest of the walk to the Crosses' house. Her
companion, too, was absorbed in thought. At the door Rosamund offered
her hand. No, she would not come in; she had work which must positively
be finished this afternoon whilst daylight lasted.
Out of the by-street, Rosamund turned into Fulham Road, and there found
a cab to convey her home. On entering the house, she gave instructions
that she was at home to nobody this afternoon; then she sat down at the
table, as though to work on a drawing, but at the end of an hour her
brush had not yet been dipped in colour. She rose, stood in the
attitude of one who knows not what to do, and at length moved to the
window. Instantly she drew back. On the opposite side of the little
square stood a man, looking toward her house; and that man was
Warburton.
From safe retirement, she watched him. He walked this way; he walked
that; again he stood still, his eyes upon the house. Would he cross
over? Would he venture to knock at the door? No, he withdrew; he
disappeared.
Presently it was the hour of dusk. Every few minutes Rosamund
reconnoitred at the window, and at length, just perceptible to her
straining eyes, there again stood Warburton. He came forward. Standing
with hand pressed against her side, she waited in nervous anguish for a
knock at the front door; but it did not sound. She stood motionless for
a long, long time, then drew a deep, deep breath, and trembled as she
let herself sink into a chair.
Earlier than usual, she went up to her bedroom. In a corner of the room
stood her trunk; this she opened, and from the chest of drawers she
took forth articles of apparel, which she began to pack, as though for
a journey. When the trunk was half full, she ceased in weariness,
rested for a little, and then went to bed.
And in the darkness there came a sound of subdued sobbing. It lasted
for some minutes--ceased--for some minutes was again audible. Then
silence fell upon the chamber.
Lying awake between seven and eight next morning, Rosamund heard the
postman's knock. At once she sprang out of bed, slipped on her
dressing-gown, and rang the bell. Two letters were brought up to her;
she received them with tremulous hand. Both were addressed in writing,
unmistakably masculine; the one was thick, the other was thin and this
she opened first.
"Dear Miss Elvan"--it was Warburton who wrote--"I hoped to see you this
evening, as we had appointed. Indeed, I _must_ see you, for, as you may
imagine, I have much to say. May I come to your house? In any case, let
me know place and hour, and let it be as soon as possible. Reply at
once, I entreat you. Ever sincerely yours--"
She laid it aside, and broke the other envelope.
"Dear, dearest Rosamund"--thus began Norbert Franks--"our talk this
morning has left me in a state of mind which threatens frenzy. You know
I haven't too much patience. It is out of the question for me to wait a
week for your answer, though I promised. I can't wait even a couple of
days. I must see you again to-morrow--must, must, _must_. Come to the
same place, there's a good, dear, sweet, beautiful girl! If you don't,
I shall be in Oakley Crescent, breaking doors open, behaving insanely.
Come early--"
And so on, over two sheets of the very best notepaper, with Norbert's
respectable address handsomely stamped in red at the top. (The other
missive was on paper less fashionable, with the address, sadly
plebeian, in mere handwriting.) Having read to the end, Rosamund
finished her dressing and went down to the sitting-room. Breakfast was
ready, but, before giving her attention to it, she penned a note. It
was to Warburton. Briefly she informed him that she had decided to join
her sister in the south of France, and that she was starting on the
journey _this morning_. Her address, she added, would be "c/o Mrs.
Alfred Coppinger, St. Jean de Luz, Basses Pyrenees." And therewith she
remained Mr. Warburton's sincerely.
"Please let this be posted at once," said Rosamund when the landlady
came to clear away.
And posted it was.