a friend, but friend I will be always,if you will allow me?"
"Of course," I said. "The many years we have known one another--Imustn't count them or I shall mention your age, which won't be polite--give us licence to talk with freedom without falling in love--eh? Butthere, a truce to joking, what about this extraordinary letter fromJack? Where is he?"
"Well, he writes from Dover," she said, drawing a note from her perfumedmuff. "Shall I read you an extract?"
"Certainly. I suppose I mustn't read it myself because it is all`darling' love and kisses."
She blushed, saying: "I have read somewhere--in one of Jack's books, Ithink--the proverb, _Les hommes aiment par jalousie, mais les femmessont jalouses par amour_. If you loved a woman, you too would call herdarling, and I know you would kiss her. Every man does."
"Your own experience--eh?" I laughed. "Perhaps I should make crossesin representation of kisses. But if you intend to convey the idea ofmale impossibilities I think those of your own sex are certainly morenumerous. It has always occurred to me that feminine impossibilitieswould make a very remarkable and interesting study. For instance, womancan't for the life of her make head nor tail out of a time-table; shecan't be jolly and appreciate the most enjoyable function if she thinksher hair is a little out of curl; she can't help gauging a woman by herclothes, even though experience has taught her that beggars sometimesride in fine carriages, and she can't, when it's a question betweenCupid and herself, help saying `No' where she means `Yes' and viceversa."
"And man, when he sees a woman's pretty face, no matter if thecomplexion is added by the hare's foot or the glorious tresses false,must straightway flirt with her if he has a chance, just as you aredoing now."
Then she laughed heartily, and clapped her small gloved hands gleefully,knowing that she had successfully turned my own sarcasm against myself.
This I was compelled to admit. She was apparently in the highestspirits. Little, alas! did she dream of the terrible truth that the manshe loved was an assassin. After more good-humoured banter she pursedher lips in pretty affectation, then opened the treasured letter,saying:
"Now, this is what puzzles me. Jack, who gives no address, the postmarkonly showing that it was posted at Dover, says: `I came up from Hounslowintending to call and see you. I only had sufficient time, however, todrive to Charing Cross and catch the night mail to the Continent. I amwriting this in the train, and shall post it at Dover before crossing.I may be absent only a week, or I may be away a month or so. If I can Iwill write, but I can give no address for I shall be constantly moving.Therefore if you love me do not attempt to communicate with me. I amsorry it is not possible for me to see you and explain, but immediatelyyou receive this letter destroy it, and if anyone inquires after me--whoever they may be--tell them you know nothing. Do not mention myletter to a soul. Trust in me, and when I return I will explain.Good-bye.'"
"What else?" I asked.
"Good-bye, darling," she said in a low voice, blushing deeply.
"Certainly it is very strange--very strange," I said. "But if I wereyou I should not trouble about it. It may be that he has been sent onsome special mission abroad."
"Oh, I shall not worry," she answered reassuringly. "In a week or twohe will return and explain."
It was upon my lips to tell her the sad news that he would never return,but I stifled the words, and said instead:
"Of course. There is nothing very extraordinary in his omission to givean address. If he is travelling quickly to an uncertain destination, asI have done sometimes, letters are quite out of the question."
"Yes, I know. But there is yet a stranger fact," she said. "Last nightwhen we got home Lord Wansford came to supper with some other people,and he told me he had a few hours before seen Jack at Victoria Stationtalking to a lady who was leaving with a quantity of luggage."
This new feature was startling, but I saw it was best to scout the idea.
"Old Wansford is rather short-sighted," I observed. "No doubt he wasmistaken. Jack would not wilfully deceive you like that."
"No. I feel confident he wouldn't," she replied, toying with theletter. "My opinion is the same as yours, that he mistook someone elsefor Jack."
"No doubt. I've been round to his chambers half an hour ago, and seenMrs Horton. She says he has not been home for three days and thatfully bears out his letter."
"Do you think," she said hesitatingly a few moments later, "do you thinkthat if I went down to Hounslow I could find out where he has gone? Iknow Major Tottenham quite well."
"No. If I were you I would not go. Had he known his destination hewould certainly have put it in his letter. I will endeavour to find outfor you, but in the meantime do not let his absence trouble you. I haveinvited him down to Wadenhoe, so you will meet, and--"
"Oh, what a good angel you are," she cried joyously. "I've beenwondering how I could get him down there for the hunting now that Madeclines to ask him."
"Well, I have asked him because I knew you wanted to have him near you.So do not let your spirits flag nor trouble yourself regarding hisjourney. He will be back soon, and you can have some jolly spins acrosscountry together."
"I don't know how to thank you sufficiently," she said, rising slowlyand stretching forth her small hand. "You are an awfully good friendboth to Jack and to myself. But I must go, for I have to call at thedressmaker's with Ma at twelve, and I've only just time to get back."
"Good-bye, Dora," I said earnestly. "If we do not meet again in town Ishall call on you at Blatherwycke. Then we can arrange plans."
We shook hands and she left, leaving behind her a delightful breath ofsome subtle perfume that stirred my senses. Her beauty always broughtback to me sad memories of Sybil, the adorable woman who came into mylife, the one ray of happiness, brief and fleeting, as sunshine on anApril day. Like Dora, she had been bright, radiant, and happy, but thegrave, alas! had claimed her, and she had left me alone, gloomy andforgotten.
I took her portrait--the one I had bought in Regent Street--from itshiding-place, and as I gazed upon the pictured face, my throatcontracted and a mist rose before my eyes--the tearful mist caused bylife's bitterness.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN.
BETWEEN THE DANCES.
I delayed my departure for nearly a fortnight in an endeavour to learnsomething of Bethune but could glean no tidings, so at last went down tothe home of my childhood. My grandfather had purchased it in the earlypart of the century because the county was a hunting one and theneighbours a good set. I had spent the greater part of my youth there,and my parents still resided there at frequent intervals. Situatedmidway between Oundle and Deenethorpe, near Benefield village, WadenhoeManor was a great rambling old place, a typical English home, halfhidden by ivy, with quaint gables and Elizabethan chimneys. As in thefading sunlight I drove up to it I thought I had never seen the oldplace looking so peaceful. Perhaps it was because my own mind was soperturbed by recent events that the solitude seemed complete. From theold mullioned windows the yellow sunset flashed back like molten goldand the birds in the chestnuts were chattering loudly before roosting.On the hill-slope farther down lay the quiet hamlet, a poem in itself.By the grey tower of its church stood two tall poplars, like guardianangels, the golden green of their young foliage all a-shimmer in thesunlight Beneath them was the sombre shade of one old yew, while a lineof dark cypress trees, marshalled like a procession of mourners, stoodalong the grey old wall, and here and there showed the brown thatch ofcottage roofs.
At home I found quite a party of visitors and the warmest welcomeawaited me. My parents, who had not enjoyed good health, had remainedthere nearly all the winter, my father only coming to town now and thenon pressing business, so I had not seen my mother for several months.The visitors, mostly friends from London, were a gay and pleasantcompany and dinner was bright and enjoyable, while there was plenty ofbrilliant chatter in the drawing-room afterwards.
Every one was full of expectancy of the meet on
the morrow at Glapthorn,and the ball that was to be given by Lady Stretton at Blatherwycke inthe evening, therefore all retired early, and were about again betimes.
The meet was a great success, and at night I accompanied our party tothe dance, not because I felt in any mood for dancing, but because Iwanted to get a chat with Dora and hear if she had received news of herlover.
Blatherwycke Hall was situated at a beautiful spot. I knew the placealmost from the time I could toddle. It was a very ancient house. Itsmassive walls and dark oak timbers, its open hearths and spaciouschimneys, its heavy doors with their antique locks and bars and hingeswent back to the Armada days when the Stretton who held it