"You do yourself an injustice," he said, rather curtly; and she laughed, and flushed a little.
"I deserve that," she said. "Of course, I should not forget Shorne Mills; but you——Ah, it is different!"
She sprang out before he could get on shore and offer his hand.
"I shall want her to-morrow morning at eleven, Brownie," she said to the old fisherman who was preparing to take theAnnie Laurieto her moorings.
He touched his forehead.
"Aye, aye, Miss Nell! And you'll not be wanting me?" he asked, as a matter of form, and with a glance at Drake, who stood waiting with his hands in his pockets.
"Oh, yes, please," she said. "I forgot; Mr. Vernon is going away to-morrow," she added cheerfully; and she began to sing under her breath again as they climbed upward. But Drake did not sing, and his face was gloomy.
Throughout that evening, Mrs. Lorton contributed to the entertainment of her guest by admiring her bracelet and deploring his departure.
"Of course I am aware that you must be anxious to go," she said, with a deep sigh. "It has been dull, I've no doubt, very dull; and I am so sorry that the state of my health has prevented me going out and about with you. There are so many places of interest in the neighborhood which we could have visited; but I am sure you will make allowances for an invalid. And we will hope that this is not yourlast visit to Shorne Mills. I need not say that we shall be glad, delighted, indeed, at any time——"
Every now and then Drake murmured his acknowledgments; but he made the due responses absently. He was left entirely at Mrs. Lorton's mercy that evening—for Nell had suddenly remembered that she ought really to go and see old Brownie's mother, a lady whose age was set down at anything between a hundred and a hundred and ten, and Dick was in his "workshop" cleaning the new and spotless gun.
Nell did not come in till late, was full of Grandmother Brownie's sayings and wonderfully maintained faculties, and ran off to bed very soon, with a cheerful "Good night, Mr. Vernon. Dick has ordered the trap for nine o'clock."
Drake got up early the next morning; there were the horses to be arranged for—he was going to leave two behind, for a time, at any rate, in the hope that Dick and Miss Nell might use them; and he had to say good-by—and tip—sundry persons. He performed the latter operation on so liberal a scale that amazement sat upon the bosom of many a man and woman in Shorne Mills for months afterward. Molly, indeed, was so overcome by the sight and feel of the crisp ten-pound note, and her face grew so red and her eyes so prominent, that Drake was seriously afraid that she was going to have a fit.
Nell had got up a few minutes after him, and had prepared his farewell breakfast; but she was not present, and Mrs. Lorton presided. It was not until the arrival of the trap that she came in hurriedly. She had her outdoor things on, and explained that she had had to go to the farm to order a fowl; and she was full of some story the farmer's wife had told her—a story which had made her laugh, and still seemed to cause her so much amusement that Mrs. Lorton felt compelled to remind her that Mr. Vernon was going.
"Ah, yes! I suppose it is time. The train starts at ten-forty-five. Have you got some lunch for Mr. Vernon, Dick?"
She had packed a neat little packet of sandwiches with her own hands, but put the question casually, as if she hoped that somebody had considered their departing guest's comfort.
The girl's bright cheerfulness got on Drake's nerves. His farewell to Mrs. Lorton lacked grace and finish, and he could only hold out his hand to Nell, and say, rather grimly and curtly:
"Good-by, Miss Nell."
Just that; no more.
Her hand rested in his for a moment. Did it tremble,or was it only fancy on his part? She said, "Good-by, and I hope you will have a pleasant journey," quite calmly.
Dick burst in with:
"Now, Mr. Vernon, if you've kissed everybody, we'd better be starting," and Drake got into the trap.
Mrs. Lorton looked after the departing guest, and waved her hand with an expression of languid sorrow; then turned to Nell with a sigh.
"I might have known that he would go; but still I must say that it is a disappointment—a great disappointment. These trials are sent for our good, and——I do wish you would not keep up that perpetual humming, Eleanor. On an occasion like this it is especially trying. And how pale you look!" she added, staring unsympathetically.
"I've—I've rather a headache," said Nell, turning toward the door. "I suppose it was hurrying up to the farm. It is very hot this morning. I'll go and take off my hat."
She went upstairs slowly, slipped the bolt in her bedroom door, and, taking off her hat, stood looking beyond the glass for a moment or two; then she absently drew an old and somewhat battered pencil case from her pocket. She gazed at it thoughtfully, until suddenly she could not see it for the tears that gathered in her eyes, and presently she began to tremble. She slipped to her knees besides the bed, and buried her forehead in the hands clasped over Drake's "token of remembrance and gratitude."
And as she struggled with the sobs that shook her, she still trembled; for there was something in the feeling of utter, overwhelming desolation which frightened her—something she could neither understand nor resist, though she had been fighting against it all through the long and weary night.
Oh, the shame of it! That she should cry because Mr. Drake Vernon had left Shorne Mills! The shame of it!
All the way up to town Drake felt very depressed. It is strange that we mortals never thoroughly appreciate a thing until we have lost it, or a time until it has slipped past us; and Drake only realized, as the express rushed along and took him farther and farther away from Shorne Mills, how contented, and, yes, nearly happy, he had been there, notwithstanding the pain and inconvenience of a broken limb.
As he leaned back and smoked, he thought of the littlevillage in the cleft of the cliffs, of the opaline sea, of the miniature jetty on which he had so often sat and basked in the sunlight; but, more than all, he thought of The Cottage, of the racketing, warm-hearted Dick, and—and of Nell of Shorne Mills.
It seemed hard to realize, and not a little painful, that he should never again sit in the parlor which now seemed to him so cozy, and listen to the girl playing Chopin and Grieg; or ride beside her over the yellow and purple moor; or lie coiled up at her feet as she sailed theAnnie Laurie.
He began to suspect that he had taken a greater interest in her than he was aware of; he had grown accustomed to the sweet face, the musical voice, the little tricks of manner and expression which went to make up a charm which he now felt she certainly possessed. He looked round the carriage and sighed as if he missed something, as if something had gone out of his life.
They had been awfully good to him; they had in very truth played the part of the good Samaritan; and in his mind he compared these simple folk, buried in an out-of-the-way fishing village, with some of his fashionable friends. Which of them would have nursed him as he had been nursed at The Cottage, would have treated him as one of the family, would have lavished upon him a regard nearly akin to affection? It was a hollow world, he thought, and he wished to Heaven he had been born in Shorne Mills, and got his living as a fisherman, putting in his spare time by looking after, say, theAnnie Laurie!
He had wired to his man, and he found his rooms all ready for him. He wondered as he looked round the handsome and tastefully furnished sitting room, while Sparling helped him off with his coat, whether he should be able to afford to keep them up much longer.
"Any news, Sparling?" he asked. "Hope you've been all right," he added, in the pleasant and friendly way with which he always addressed those who did service for him.
"Thank you, my lord," said Sparling, "I've been very well; but I was much upset to hear of your lordship's accident, and very sorry you wouldn't let me come to you."
The man spoke with genuine sympathy and regret, for he was attached to Drake, and was fully convinced that he had the best, the handsomest, and the most desirable master in all England.
"Thanks; very much," said Drake; "but it was nothing to speak of, and there was no reason for dragging you down there. There wasn't any accommodation, to tell the truth, and you'd have moped yourself to death."
"You're looking very well, my lord—a little thinner, perhaps," said Sparling respectfully.
Drake sighed at the naïve retort, then sighed unaccountably.
"Oh, I've done some fishing, boating, and riding," he said, "and I'm pretty fit—fitter than I've been for some time. There's an awful pile of letters, I see."
"Yes, my lord; you told me not to send them on. Will your lordship dine at home to-night?"
Drake replied in the affirmative, had a bath, and changed, and sat down to one of the daintily prepared dinners which were the envy and despair of his bachelor friends. It was really an admirable little dinner; the claret was a famous one from the Anglemere cellars, and warmed to a nicety; the coffee was perfection; Sparling's ministrations left nothing to be desired; and yet Drake sank into his easy-chair after the meal with a sigh that was weary and wistful.
There had never been anything more than soup and a plain joint, with a pudding to follow, at the dinners at The Cottage; but the simple meal had been rendered a pleasant one by Dick's cheerful and boyish nonsense; and whenever Drake looked across the table, there had been Nell's sweet face opposite him, sometimes grave with a pensive thoughtfulness, at others all alight with merriment and innocent, girlish gayety.
His room to-night seemed very dull and lonely. It was strange; he had never been bored by his own society before; he had rather liked to dine alone, to smoke his cigarette with the evening paper across his knee or a book on the table beside him. He tried to read; but the carefully edited paper, with its brilliant articles, its catchy little paragraphs, and its sparkling gossip, didn't interest him in the least. He dropped it, and fell to wondering, to picturing, what they were doing at that precise moment at The Cottage. Mrs. Lorton, no doubt, was sitting in her high-backed chair reading theFashion Gazette; Dick was lounging just outside the window, smoking a cigarette, mending his rod, and whistling the last comic song. And Nell—what was Nell doing? Perhaps she was playing softly one of the pieces he had grown fond of; or leaning half out of the window squabbling affectionately with the boy.
Or perhaps they were talking of him—Drake. Did they miss him? At the thought, he was reminded of the absurd song—"Will They Miss Me When I'm Gone?" And, with something like a blush for his sentimental weakness, as he mentally termed it, he sprang up and took his letters. They consisted mostly of bills and invitations. He chucked thefirst aside and glanced at the others; both were distasteful to him. He felt as if he should like to cut the world forever.
And yet that wouldn't do. Everybody would say that he was completely knocked over by the ruin of his prospects, and that he had run away. He couldn't stand that. He had always been accustomed to facing the music, however unpleasant it might be; and he would face it now. Besides, it would never do to sit there moping, and wishing himself back at Shorne Mills; because that was just what he was doing.
He turned over the gilt-edged cards and the scented notes—there seemed to be a great many people in town, notwithstanding the deadness of the season—and he selected one from a certain Lady Northgate. She was an old friend of his, and she had written him a pretty little note, asking him to a reception for that night. It was just the little note which a thorough woman of the world would write to a man whom she liked, and who had struck a streak of bad luck. Most of Drake's acquaintances who were in town would be there; and it would be a good opportunity of facing the situation and accepting more or less sincere sympathy with a good grace.
It was a fine night; and he walked to the Northgates' in Grosvenor Square; and thought of the evening he and Nell had sailed in to Shorne Mills with the lights peeping out through the trees, and the stars twinkling in the deep-blue sky. It already seemed years since that night, but he saw the girl's face as clearly as if she were walking beside him now.
The face vanished as he went up the broad staircase and into the brilliantly lighted room; and Shorne Mills seemed farther away, and all that had happened there like a dream, as Lady Northgate held out her hand and smiled at him.
She was an old friend, and many years his senior; but of course she looked young—no one in society gets old nowadays—and she greeted him with a cheerful badinage, which, however skillfully, suggested sympathy.
"It was a good boy to come!" she said. "I scarcely half expected you, and Harry offered to bet me ten to one in my favorite gloves that you wouldn't; but, somehow, I thought you would turn up. I wrote such a pretty note, didn't I?"
"You did; you always do," said Drake. "It was quite irresistible."
Lord Northgate, who was the "Harry" alluded to, came up and gave Drake a warm grip of the hand.
"What the deuce are you doing here?" he asked. "Thought you were shooting down at Monkwell's place, orsomewhere. Jolly glad Lucy didn't take my bet. And where have you been?"
"With the Devon and Somerset," replied Drake, with partial truth.
"Wish I had!" grumbled Northgate. "Kept at the Office." He was in the Cabinet. "There's always some beastly row, or little war, just going on when one wants to get at the salmon or the grouse. I declare to goodness that I work like a nigger and get nothing but kicks for halfpence! I'd chuck politics to-morrow if it weren't for Lucy; and why on earth she likes to be shut in town, and sweltering in hot rooms, playing this kind of game, I can't imagine."
"But then you haven't a strong imagination, Harry, dear," said his wife pleasantly.
"I've got a strong thirst on me," said Northgate, "and a still stronger desire to cut this show. Come down to the smoking room and have a cigar presently, old chap."
Drake knew that this was equivalent to saying, "I'm sorry for you, old man!" and nodded comprehendingly.
"You're looking very well, Drake," said Lady Northgate, as her husband, struggling with a fearful yawn, sauntered away. "And not at all unhappy."
Drake shrugged his shoulders.
"What's the use? Of course, it's a bad business for me; but all the yowling in the world wouldn't better it. What can't be cured must be endured."
Lady Northgate nodded at him approvingly.
"I knew you'd take it like this," she said. "You won't go down to Harry for a little while?"
"Oh, no," said Drake, with a smile. "I'm going the round; I'm not going to shirk it."
He was one of the most popular men in London, and there were many in the room who really sympathized with and were sorry for him; and Drake, as he exchanged greetings with one and another, felt that the thing hadn't been so bad, after all. He made this consoling reflection as he leaned against the wall beside a chair in which sat a lady whom he did not know, and at whom he had scarcely glanced; and he was roused from his reverie by her saying:
"May I venture to trouble you to put this glass down?"
He took the glass and set it on the pedestal of the statuette beside him, and, as in duty bound, returned to the lady. She was an extremely pretty little woman, with soft brown hair and extremely bright eyes, which, notwithstanding their brightness, were not at all hard. He felt, rather than knew, that she was perfectly dressed, and he noticed that she wore remarkably fine diamonds. They sparkled and glittered in her hair, on her bosom, on her wrists, and on her fingers.
He had never seen her before, and he wondered who she was.
"You have just come up from the country?" she said.
The accent with which she made this rather startling remark betrayed her nationality to Drake. The American accent, when it is voiced by a person of culture and refinement, is an extremely pretty one; the slight drawl is musical, and the emphasis which is given to words not usually made emphatic, is attractive.
"Yes," said Drake. "But how did you know that?"
"Your face and hands are so brown," she replied, with a frankness which was robbed of all offense by her placidity and unself-consciousness. "Nearly all the men one meets here are so colorless. I suppose it is because you have so little air and sun in London. At first, one is afraid that everybody is ill; but after a time one gets used to it."
Drake was amused and a little interested.
"Have the men in America so much color?" he asked.
"Well, how did you know I was an American?" she inquired, with a charming little air of surprise. "I suppose my speech betrayed me? That is so annoying. I thought I had almost entirely lost my accent."
"I don't know why you should want to lose it," said Drake, honestly enough. "It's five hundred times better than our London one!"
"I didn't say I wanted to exchange it for that," she remarked.
"Don't exchange it for any other, if I may be permitted to say so."
"That's very good of you," she said; "but isn't it rather like asking the leopard not to change his spots? And after all, I don't know why we shouldn't be as proud of our accent as you are of yours."
"I'm quite certain I'm not proud of mine," said Drake.
She smiled up at him over her fan; a small and costly painted affair, with diamonds incrusted in the handle.
"You are more modest than most Englishmen," she said.
"I don't know whether to be grateful or not for that," remarked Drake. "Are we all so conceited?"
"Well, I think you are all pretty well satisfied with yourselves," she replied. "I never knew any nation so firmly convinced that it was the pick of creation; and I expect before I am here very long I shall become as fully convinced as you are that the world was made by special contract for the use and amusement of the English. Mind, I won't say that it could have been made for a better people."
"That's rather severe," said Drake. "But don't you forgetthat you were English yourself a few years ago; that, in a sense, you are English still."
"That's very nicely said," she remarked; "more especially as I didn't quite deserve it. I was wanting to see whether I could make you angry."
Drake stared at her with astonishment.
"Why on earth should you want to make me angry?" he asked.
"Well, I've heard a great deal about you," she replied. "And all the people who talked about you told me that you were rather hot-tempered. Lady Northgate, for instance, assured me you could be a perfect bear when you liked."
Drake smiled.
"That was extremely kind of Lady Northgate."
"Well, so long as it wasn't true. I've heard so much about you that I was quite anxious to see you. I am speaking to Lord Drake Selbie, am I not?"
"That's my name," said Drake.
"The nephew of Angleford?"
Drake nodded.
She looked up at him as if waiting to see how he took the mention of his uncle's name; but Drake's face could be as impassive as a stone wall when he liked.
"You know my uncle?" he asked, in a tone of polite interest.
"Yes," she said; "very well. I met him when he was in America. His wife is a great friend of mine. You know her, of course?"
"I'm sorry to say I have not had that pleasure," said Drake. "I was absent from England when the present Lady Angleford came over, after her marriage."
"Oh, yes," said the lady. "I suppose I ought not to have mentioned her?"
"Good heavens! Why not?" asked Drake.
"Well, of course," she drawled slowly, but musically, "I know that Lord Angleford's marriage was a bad thing for you. It wouldn't be my fault if I didn't, seeing that everybody in London has been talking about it."
"Well, it's not a particularly good thing for me," Drake admitted; "but it's no reason why I should dislike any reference to my uncle or his wife."
"You don't bear her any ill will?" she asked.
This was extremely personal, especially coming from a stranger; but the lady was an American, with an extremely pretty face and a charming manner, and there was so much gentleness, almost deprecatory gentleness in her softly bright eyes, that Drake, somehow, could not feel any resentment.
"Not the very least in the world, I assure you," he replied."My uncle had a perfect right to marry when he pleased, and whom he pleased."
"I didn't think you'd be angry with him," she said, "because everybody says you were such friends, and you are so fond of him; but I thought you'd be riled with her."
Drake laughed rather grimly.
"Not in the least," he said. "Of course, I should have preferred that my uncle should remain single, but I can't be absurd enough to quarrel with a lady for marrying him. He is a very charming man, and perhaps she couldn't help herself."
"That's just it—she couldn't," said the lady naïvely. "And have you been to see your uncle since you've been back?" she asked.
"Not yet," replied Drake. "I only came back to London an hour or two ago, but I will look him up to-morrow."
"I knew you would," she said; "because that was such a nice letter you wrote, and such a pretty present you sent to Lady Angleford."
As she spoke, she transferred her fan to her left hand and raised her right arm, and Drake recognized upon her wrist a bracelet which he had sent Lady Angleford as a wedding present. He colored and frowned slightly, then he laughed as he met the now timid and quite deprecatory gaze of the upturned eyes.
"Was this quite fair, Lady Angleford?" he said, smiling.
"Well, I don't know," she said, a little pathetically. "I thought it was, but I'm not quite sure now. You see, I wanted to meet you and talk to you, and know exactly how you felt toward me without your knowing who I was."
Drake went and sat down beside her, and leaned toward her with one arm stretched on the back of her chair.
"But why?" he asked.
"Well, you see, I was a little afraid of you. When Lord Angleford asked me to marry him and I consented, I didn't quite realize how things stood between you and him. It was not until I came to Europe—I mean to England—that I realized that I had, so to speak, come between your uncle and you. And that made me feel bad, because everybody I met told me that you were such a—a good fellow, as they call it——"
"One Englishman will become conceited, if you don't take care, Lady Angleford," put in Drake, with a smile.
"That's what everybody says; and I found that you were so much liked and so popular; and it was hateful to me that I should cause a quarrel between you and Lord Angleford. It has made me very unhappy."
"Then don't be unhappy any longer, Lady Angleford," hesaid. "There has been, and there need be, no quarrel between my uncle and me."
"Ah, now you make me happy!" she said; and she turned to him with a little flush on her face which made her prettier than ever. "I have been quite wretched whenever I thought of you or heard your name. People spoke of you as if you had died, or got the measles, with a kind of pity in their voices which made me mad and hate myself. You see, as I said, I didn't realize what I was doing. I didn't realize that I was coming between an hereditary legislator and his descendant and heir."
Drake could not help smiling.
"You had better not call my uncle an hereditary legislator, Lady Angleford. I don't think he'd like it."
"But he is, isn't he?" she said. "It is so difficult for an American to understand these things. We are supposed to have the peerage by heart; but we haven't. It's all a mystery and a tangle to us, even the best of us. But I try not to make mistakes. And now I want you to tell me that we are friends. That is so, isn't it?"
She held out her tiny and perfectly gloved hand with a mixture of timidity and impulsiveness which touched Drake.
"Indeed, I hope we are, Lady Angleford," he said.
She looked at him wistfully.
"You couldn't call me 'aunt,' I suppose?"
Drake laughed outright.
"I'm afraid I couldn't," he said. "You are far too young for that."
"I am sorry," she said. "I think I should have liked you to call me aunt. But never mind. I must be satisfied with knowing that we are friends, and that you bear me no ill will. And now, I think I will go. My little plot has been rather successful, after all, hasn't it?"
"Quite a perfect success," said Drake. "And I congratulate you upon it."
"Don't tell Lord Angleford," she said. "He'll say it was 'so American'; and I do hate him to say that."
Drake promised that he would not relate the little farce to his uncle, and got her cloak and took her down to the Angleford carriage. As he put her in and closed the door, she gave him her hand, and smiled at him with a little air of triumph and appeal.
"We are friends, aren't we?" she asked.
"The best of friends, Lady Angleford," he replied. "Good night."
He went back to say good night to Lady Northgate.
"You played it rather low down upon me, didn't you?" he remarked.
"My dear Drake, what could I do?" she exclaimed. "That poor little woman was so terribly anxious to gain your good will. She didn't understand in the least the harm she was doing you. And what will you do? She is immensely rich—her father was an American millionaire——"
Drake's face hardened. One thing at least he knew he couldn't do: he could not bring himself to accept charity from Lady Angleford. Lady Northgate understood the frown.
"Don't kill me before all these people, Drake!" she said. "I dare say it's very silly of me, but I can't help plotting for your welfare. You see, I am foolish enough to be rather fond of you. There! Go down and drink that soda and whisky with Harry. If you won't let your friends help you, what will you do?"
"I give it up; ask me another. Don't you worry about me, my dear lady; I shall jog along somehow."
The next morning, while at breakfast, he received a little note from Lady Angleford, asking him to dinner that night. It was a charming little note, as pleading and deprecating as her eyes had been when she looked at him at the Northgates'.
Drake sent back word that he would be delighted to come, and at eight o'clock presented himself at his uncle's house in Park Lane. Lord Angleford was, like Northgate, detained in London by official business. He was a very fine specimen of the old kind of Tory, and, though well advanced in years, still extremely good-looking—the whole family was favored in that way—and remarkably well preserved. His hair was white, but his eyes were bright and his cheeks ruddy, and, when free from the gout, he was as active as a young man. Of course, he was hot-tempered; all gouty men are; but he was as charming in his way as Lady Angleford, and extremely popular in the House of Lords, and out of it.
Though he had fallen in love with a pretty little American, perhaps he would not have married her but for the little tiff with Drake; but that little tiff had just turned the scale, and, though he had taken the step in a moment of pique, he had not regretted it; for he was very fond and proud of his wife. But he was also very fond and proud of Drake, and was extremely pleased when Lady Angleford had told him that she had met Drake, and was going to ask him to dinner.
"Oh, all right," he had said. "I shall be very glad to see him—though he's an obstinate young mule. I think you'll like him."
"I do like him very much indeed," she had said. "He is so handsome—how very like he is to you!—and he's not a bit stand-offish and superior, like most Englishmen."
"Oh, Drake's not a bad sort of fellow," said Lord Angleford, "but he's too fond of having his own way."
At this Lady Angleford had smiled; for she knew another member of the family who liked his own way.
She was waiting for Drake in the drawing-room, and gave him both her hands with a little impulsiveness which touched Drake.
"I am so glad you have come," she said; "and your uncle is very glad, too. You won't—get to arguing, will you? You English are such dreadful people to argue. And I think he has a slight attack of the gout, though he was quite angry when I hinted at it this morning."
Drake sincerely hoped his uncle hadn't, for everybody's sake. At that moment the earl came into the room, held out his hand, and said, as if he had parted with Drake only the night before:
"How are you, Drake? Glad to see you. You've met Lady Angleford already? Isn't it nearly dinner time?"
Drake took Lady Angleford in. There were no guests besides himself, and they had quite a pleasant little dinner. Lady Angleford talked with all the vivacity and charm of a cultured American who has seen both sides of the world, and kept her eyes open, and Drake began to feel as if he had known her for years. The earl was in a singularly good humor and listened to, and smiled at, his young wife proudly, and talked to Drake as if nothing had happened. It was just like old times; and Drake, as he opened the door for Lady Angleford, on her way to the drawing-room, smiled down at her, and nodded as she looked up at him questioningly.
Then he went back to his chair, and the butler put the Angleford port in its wicker cradle before the earl.
"I oughtn't to touch a drop," he said, "for I've had a twinge or two lately; but on this occasion——"
He filled his glass, and passed the bottle to Drake—the butler had left the room.
"So you met Lady Angleford last night?"
"Yes, sir; and I take this, the first opportunity, to congratulate you. And Lady Angleford is as charming as she is pretty; and you won't mind my saying that I consider you an extremely lucky man."
Of course, the earl looked pleased.
"Thanks," he said; "that's very good of you, Drake—especially as my marriage may make all the difference to you."
Drake looked at his cigarette steadily.
"I've no reason to complain, sir; and I don't," he said. "You might have married years ago, and I'm rather surprised you didn't."
The earl grunted.
"I don't suppose I should have done so now, if you hadn't been such a stubborn young ass. That put my back up. But though I don't regret what I've done—no, by Jove!—I don't want you to think I am utterly regardless of your future. This port improves, doesn't it? Of course, you may be knocked out of the succession now——"
"Most probably so, I should think," said Drake.
"Just so. And, therefore, it's only right that I should do something for you."
"You are very good, sir," said Drake.
The earl colored slightly.
"Now look here, Drake; I'm always suspicious of that d——d quiet way of yours! I was very glad when Lady Angleford told me that you were coming here, and I made up my mind that I would let bygones be bygones and act squarely by you. As I said, I'm not a bit sorry that I married; no, indeed!—you've seen Lady Angleford—but I don't want to leave you in the lurch. I don't want you to suffer more than—than can be helped. I've been thinking the matter over, and I'll tell you what I'll do. Have some more port."
Unluckily for Drake, the old man filled his own glass before passing the bottle. Drake sipped his port and waited, and the earl went on:
"Of course, I meant to continue your allowance; but I can see that under the circumstances that wouldn't be sufficient. Something might happen to me——"
"I sincerely trust nothing will happen to you, sir," said Drake.
The earl grunted.
"Well, I'm not so young as I was; and I might get chucked off my horse, or—or something of that sort; and then you'd be in a hole, I imagine; for I suppose you've got through most of your mother's money?"
"A great deal of it," admitted Drake.
"Yes; I thought so. Well, look here; I'll tell you what I'll do, Drake. As you may know, Lady Angleford has a fortune of her own. Her father was a millionaire. That leaves me free to do what I like with my own money. Now, I'll settle ten thousand a year on you, Drake—but on one condition."
Drake was considerably startled. After all, ten thousand a year is a large sum; and though the earl was immensely rich, Drake had not expected him to be so liberal. On ten thousand a year one can manage very comfortably, even in England. Drake thought of his debts, of all that a settled income would mean to him, and his heart warmed with gratitude toward his uncle.
"You are more than kind, sir," he said. "Your liberality takes my breath away. What was the condition?"
The earl fidgeted a little in his chair.
"Look here, Drake," he said, "I've never worried you about your way of life; I know that young men will be young men, and that you've lived in a pretty fast set. That was your business and not mine, and as long as you kept afloat I didn't choose to interfere. But I think it's time you settled down; and I'll settle this money on you on condition that you do settle down. You're engaged to a very nice girl—just you marry and settle down, and I'll provide the means, as I say."
Drake looked straight before him. Had this offer been made a month before he would have accepted it without a moment's hesitation, for he had thought himself in love with Luce, and, more important, he had thought that she had cared for him. But now all was changed. He knew that if a hundred thousand a year were dependent upon marrying Luce he couldn't accept it.
The earl stared at him, and filled another glass with the port, which was a poison to him.
"Eh? What the devil do you mean? I say that if you'll settle down and marry Luce I will provide a suitable income for you. What the blazes are you hesitating about? Why—confound it!—aren't you satisfied? You don't want to be told that I'm not bound to give you a penny!"
The old man's handsome face was growing red, and his eyes were beginning to glitter; the port was doing its fell work.
"I know," said Drake, with a quietude which only made his uncle more angry, "and I'm very much obliged to you. I know what ten thousand a year means; but I'm afraid I can't fulfill the conditions."
"What the devil do you mean?" demanded the earl.
Drake smoked in silence for a moment or two. Most men would have said at once that Lady Lucille Turfleigh had, on his change of prospects, jilted him; but Drake had some old-world notions of honor in respect to women, and he could not give Lady Luce away.
"I'm afraid I can't marry Luce," he said. "Our engagement is broken off."
The earl swore a good old Tory oath.
"Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" he said. "One of the nicest girls I know, and—devoted to you. More devoted to you than you deserve. And you don't mean to marry her? I suppose you've seen some one else?"
Drake grew hot, but he still clung to his notion of honor.
"I tell you what it is, Drake," said the earl, bringing down his port glass on the table so violently that it snapped off at the stem, "you young fellows of the present day haven't any idea of honor. Here's a girl, a beautiful girl, and nice in every way, simply devoted to you, and you go and throw her over. For some insane fancy, I suppose! Well, see here, I'm d——d if I'll countenance it. I abide by my condition. You make it up with Luce and marry her, and I'll settle this money on you, as I've said. If not——"
Drake knocked the ash off his cigarette and looked straight before him. He could still save himself by telling the truth and sacrificing Lady Luce. But that was not his way.
"I'm sorry, sir——" he began.
"Sorry be d——d!" broke in the earl tempestuously. "Will you, or will you not?"
"I can't," said Drake quietly.
The old man rose to his feet, flinging his serviette aside.
"Then, by Heaven! I've done with you!" he exclaimed. "I made you a fair offer. I've only asked you to act like a gentleman, a man of honor. Am I to understand that you refuse?"
Drake had also risen slowly.
"I'm afraid I must, sir," he said.
"All right," said the earl, red with anger. "Then there's nothing more to be said. You can go your own way. But permit me to tell you——"
"Oh, don't, sir!" said Drake, rather sadly. "I can't do what you ask. God knows I would if I could, but—it's impossible. For Heaven's sake, don't let us quarrel——"
"Quarrel! I am as cool as a cucumber!" exclaimed the earl, his face the color of beetroot. "All I say is"—here a twinge of the gout checked his utterance—"that you're behaving shamefully—shamefully! We'd better join the ladies—I mean Lady Angleford——"
"I think I'll get you to excuse me, sir," said Drake. "There is no need to upset Lady Angleford. She asked me here with the very best intentions, and she would be disappointed if she knew we had—quarreled. There is no need to tell her. I'll clear out. Make my excuse to her."
"As you like," said the earl shortly. "But let me tell you that I think you are——"
"No end of a fool, I've no doubt," said Drake, with arather weary smile. "I dare say I am. But I can't help it. Good night, sir."
The earl muttered something that sounded like "good night," and Drake left the house. He ought to have said good night to Lady Angleford, but he shirked it. He bore her no animosity; indeed, he liked her very much—so much that he shrank from telling her about this quarrel with his uncle; and he knew that if he went to her she would get it out of him.
He walked home, feeling very miserable and down on his luck. How he hated London, and all that belonged to it! Like a whiff of fresh air the memory of Shorne Mills wafted across his mind. He let himself in with his latchkey, and, taking a sheet of note paper, made some calculations upon it. There was still something remaining of his mother's fortune to him. If he were not Lord Drake Selbie, but simply Mr. Drake Vernon, he could manage to live upon it. The vision of a slim and graceful girl, with soft black hair and violet-gray eyes, rose before him. It seemed to beckon him, to beckon him away from the hollow, heartless world in which he had hitherto lived. He rose and flung open wide the window of his sitting room, and the breath of air which came through the London streets seemed fragrant with the air which wafted over Shorne Mills.
No pen, however eloquent, can describe the weariness of the hours for Nell which had passed since "Mr. Drake Vernon" had left Shorne Mills. Something had seemed to have gone out of her life. The sun was shining as brightly, there was the same light on the sea, the same incoming and outgoing tide; every one was as kind to her as they had been before he left, and yet all life seemed a blank. When she was not waiting upon mamma she wandered about Shorne Mills, sailed in theAnnie Laurie, and sometimes rode across the moor. But there was something wanting, and the lack of it made happiness impossible. She thought of him all day, and at night she tossed in her little bed sleeplessly, recalling the happy hours she had spent with him. God knows she tried hard to forget him, to be just the same, to feel just the same, as she had been before he had been thrown at her feet. But she could not. He had entered into her life and become a principal part of it, absorbed it. She found herself thinking of him all through the day. She grew thin and pale in an incredibly short time. Even Dick himself could not rouse her; and Mrs. Lorton read her a severe lecture upon the apathy of indolence.
Life had been so joyous and so all-sufficing a thing forher; but now nothing seemed to interest her. There was a dull, aching pain in her heart which she could not understand, and which she could not get rid of. She longed for solitude. She often walked up to the top of the hill, to the purple moor over which she had ridden with Drake Vernon; and there she would sit, recalling every word she had said, every tone of his voice. She tried to forget him, but it was impossible.
One evening she walked up the hill slowly and thoughtfully, and seated herself on a mossy bank, and gave herself up to that reverie in which we dream dreams which are more of heaven than of earth.
Suddenly she heard the sound of footsteps. She looked up listlessly and with a slight feeling of impatience, seeing that her reverie was disturbed.
The footsteps came nearer, a tall figure appeared against the sunset. She rose to her feet, trembling and filled with the hope that seemed to her too wild for hope.
In another moment he was beside her. She rose, quivering in every nerve.
Was it only a dream, or was it he? He held her hand and looked down at her with an expression in his eyes and face which made her tremble, and yet which made her heart leap.
"Nell!" he said.
They stood and looked at each other in silence for a moment; but what a silence!
It almost seemed to Nell as if it were not he himself who stood before her, but just a vision of her imagination, called up by the intensity of her thoughts of him. The color came and went in her face, leaving it, at last, pale and startled. And he, too, stood, as incapable of speech as any of the shy and bashful young fishermen on the quay; he, the man of the world, who had faced so many "situations" with women—women of the world armed with the weapons of experience, and the "higher culture." At that moment, intense as it was, the strength of the emotion which swept over him and mastered him, amazed him.
He knew, now that he was face to face with her, how he had missed this girl, how keen and intolerable had been his longing for her.
He remembered to hold out his hand. Had he done so yet? For the life of him, he could not have told. The sight of the sweet face had cast a spell over him, and he did not know whether he was standing or sitting.
As she put her small hand in his, Nell recovered something of her self-possession; but not all, for her heart was beating furiously, her bosom heaving, and she was in agony lest he should see the mist of dew which seemed to cover her eyes.
"I'm afraid I startled you," he said.
Nell smiled faintly, and drew her hand away—for he had held it half unconsciously.
"I think you did—a little," she admitted. "You see, I—we did not expect you. And"—she laughed the laugh he had heard in his dreams, though it had not always been so tremulous, so like the flutelike quaver of this laugh—"and even now I am not quite sure it is you."
"It is I—believe me," he said. "It is the same bad penny come back."
Then it flashed upon him he must give some reason for his return. Incredible as it may seem, he was not prepared with one. He had made up his mind to come; he would have gone through fire and water to get back to Shorne Mills, but he had quite forgotten that some excuse would be necessary.
But she did not seem to see the necessity.
"Are you quite well now?" she asked, just glancing up at him.
"Quite," he said; "perfectly well."
"And how did you come? I mean when—have you been staying near?"
"I came by this morning's train," he said, "and I walked over; my luggage follows by the carrier. I enjoyed the walk."
"You must be quite strong again," she said, with a quiet little gladness. "Mamma—and Dick—will be so glad to see you!"
"They haven't forgotten me?" he asked insanely.
She laughed again.
"They have talked of very little else but you, since you have been gone, and Dick is like a boy who has lost a schoolfellow."
She said it so frankly that Drake's heart sank.
"Well—I've thought—I've missed you—Dick," he said, stumbling over the sentence. "Shorne Mills is, as you said, not the kind of place one forgets in a hurry."
"Did I say that?" she asked. "I don't remember it."
"Ah! but I do," he said. "I remember——"
"Hadn't we better walk on?" she said. "You must be tired, and will be glad of some tea—or something."
He seemed to notice for the first time that they had been standing, and they walked on.
Her heart was still beating fast—beating with a new andstrange happiness glowing through her. Only a few minutes ago she had felt so weary and wretched; the familiar scene, which she loved so dearly, had seemed flat and dreary and full of melancholy, and now—oh! how lovely it was! how good it was to look upon!
Why had everything changed so suddenly? Why was every pulse dancing to the subtle music with which the air seemed full?
The question came to her with a kind of dread and fear; and her eyes, which shone like stars, grew momentarily troubled and puzzled.
He scarcely dared look at her. The longing to touch her, to take her in his arms—that longing of passionate love which he had never felt before—rose imperiously in his heart; but something restrained him. She was so young, so innocent and girlish that a kind of awe fell upon him. When, as she walked beside him, the sleeve of her jacket came in contact with his arm, a thrill ran through him, and he caught his breath.
But he would hold himself in check; not at this moment, when she was startled by his sudden appearance, would he tell her. It was more than likely that he would frighten her, and that she would fly from him.
"And is there any news?" he asked.
She looked up as if she had come from a reverie.
"News! There is never any news at Shorne Mills!" she said, smiling brightly. "Nothing ever happens. Dick has shot some rabbits—and there was a good catch of mackerel yesterday, and—that's all."
Her eyes shone up at him, and he looked into their depths. "I wish I'd been here," he said. "But perhaps they'll have another big catch."
"Are you going to stay?"
The question sprang from her lips almost before she knew it, and she bit them a moment after the words were spoken; for it seemed to her that he must have noticed the eagerness, the anxiety in the query; but Drake only thought that she had asked with some surprise.
"A—a little while," he replied.
"Mamma and Dick will be very pleased," she said, in as matter-of-fact a tone as she could.
"I wired to Mrs. Brownie, asking her if she could put me up—old Brownie lets some rooms, he told me——"
Her face fell for a moment.
"You are not coming to us—to The Cottage?" she said cheerily.
"No; I couldn't trespass upon Mrs. Lorton's hospitality," he replied.
"I hope you will be comfortable——" She hesitated. "Mrs. Brownie's cottage is very small and——"
"Oh, I'm used to roughing it," he cut in; "and perhaps, when I find it too small, you will let me come up and see you——"
"In our palatial mansion—for a change."
She was bright again, and her eyes were sparkling. After all, though he would not be under the same roof, he would be near—would be in Shorne Mills.
"I think I'll go down to Mrs. Brownie's and see if it is all right, and then come up for a cup of tea, if I may," he said, as they neared The Cottage.
He opened the gate for her; she gave him a little nod, her sweet face radiant with the new-born happiness which suffused her whole being, and ran in.
"Mamma—guess who has come!" she exclaimed breathlessly, as she entered the sitting room where Mrs. Lorton was reclining on the sofa with theFashion Gazetteand a bottle of eau de Cologne beside her. "Dick, I will give you three guesses—with a box of cigarettes as a prize," as Dick sauntered in with the gun under his arm.
"My dear Eleanor, why this excitement?" asked Mrs. Lorton rebukingly. "Your face is flushed, and your hat is on one side——"
"You'll have to give up drinking in the daytime, Nell," remarked Dick. "No, mamma, the gun will not go off, because it is not loaded. I wish it would, because I'm stone-broke and haven't any more cartridges. If I had a sister worthy of the name, she would advance me a small sum out of her pocket money."
"Guess, guess!" broke in Nell impatiently.
Dick smiled contemptuously.
"Some conceited clown to lecture in the schoolroom?" he said. "We know you of old, my dear Nell. Is there to be any tea this afternoon?"
"Clown!" retorted Nell scornfully. "Really, I've a good mind not to tell you until he—he comes himself."
"He—who? I must ask you to restrain your excitement, Eleanor. My nerves are in a very sad condition to-day, and I cannot—I really cannot bear any mental strain."
"It's Mr. Drake Vernon," said Nell, more soberly.
Dick uttered the yell of a rejoicing red Indian; and Mrs. Lorton slid into an upright position with incredible rapidity.
"Mr. Vernon! Go on, you're joking, Nell!" cried Dick; "and yet you look pleased enough for it to be true! Mr. Vernon! Hurrah! Sorry, mamma, but my feelings, which usually are under perfect control——"
"Is my hair tidy, Eleanor? Take this eau de Cologneaway. Where is he? Did you think to bring a tea cake for tea? No, of course not; you think of nothing, nothing! I sometimes wonder why you have not imitated some of the Wolfer tact and readiness."
"I met Mr. Vernon on the moor, away from the village. I will make some toast. He is coming up presently. He is going to stay at the Brownies'—this is my best hat. Do be careful!"
For Dick, in his joy, had fallen against her in the passage and nearly knocked her hat off; then he seized her by the arm, and, fixing her with a gaze of exaggerated keenness, demanded in melodramatic tones, but too low for Mrs. Lorton to hear:
"What means this sudden and strange return of the interesting stranger? Speak, girl! Attempt not to deceive; subterfuge will not avail ye! Say, what means this unexpected appearance? Ah! why that crimson blush which stains your nose——"
Nell broke from him—half ashamedly, for was she, indeed, blushing?—and ran to make the toast, and Dick went to the gate to watch for Drake.
Drake found the Brownies expecting him, and was shown the tiny sitting room and bedroom they had hastily prepared; and, his luggage having arrived, he had a wash and a change.
And as he dried himself on the lavender-scented towel, he invented an excuse for his return. He was filled with a strange gladness; the surge of the waves as they beat against the jetty sang a welcome to him; he could hear the fishermen calling to each other, as they cleaned their boats, or whistling as they sat on the jetty spreading their nets to dry; it was more like coming back to his birthplace, or some spot in which he had lived for years, than to the little seaside village which he had seen for the first time a few weeks ago.
As he went up slowly to The Cottage, every man, woman, and child he met touched his hat or curtsied and smiled a welcome to him, and Dick's "Hallo, Mr. Vernon! then it is you, and Nell wasn't spoofing us. How are you? Come in!" went straight to his heart.
He went in with his hand on the boy's shoulder, and was received by Mrs. Lorton with a mixture of stately dignity and simpering pleasure, which, however, no longer roused his irritation and impatience.
"I am quite sure you will not be comfortable at the Brownies', Mr. Vernon," she said; "and I need not say that we shall be glad if you are not. Your room awaits you whenever you feel inclined to return to it—Richard, tellEleanor that we are ready for the tea. And how did you leave London, Mr. Vernon? I am aware that it is not the season; but there are always some good families remaining in town," et cetera.
Drake answered with as fair an imitation of interest as he could manage; then Nell came in, followed by Molly, with the tea. There was no longer any sign of a blush on the girl's face, but the gray eyes were still bright, and a smile—such a tender, joyous, sunny smile—lurked in ambush at the corners of her sweet lips. She did not look at him, and was quite busy with the teacups and saucers; but she listened to every word he said, as if every word were too precious to miss.
"I was obliged to come down—the horses, you know," he said, as if that fully explained his return; "and, to tell you the truth, my dear Mrs. Lorton, I was very glad of the excuse. London is particularly hateful just now; though, as you say, there are a good many people there still."
"Did you meet my cousin Wolfer?" asked Mrs. Lorton.
Drake expressed his regret at not having done so.
"I think you would like him," she said, with her head on one side, and with a long sigh. "It is years since I have seen him. When last we met——"
"'He wore a wreath of roses!'" murmured Dick, under his breath.
—"And no doubt he would find me much changed; one ages in these out-of-the-way places, where the stir and bustle of the great world never reaches one."
"Mamma dropping into poetry is too touching!" murmured Dick; then aloud: "Nell, my child, if you are going to have a fit you had better leave the room. This is the second time you have shot out your long legs and kicked me. You had better see Doctor Spence."
The boy's badinage, Nell's half-shy delight, filled Drake with joy; even Mrs. Lorton's folly only amused him. He leaned back and drank his tea and ate his toast—he knew that Nell had made it, and every morsel was sweet to him—with a feeling of happiness too deep for words. And yet there was anxiety mixed with his happiness. Was the delight only that which would arise in the heart of a young girl, a child, at the visit of a friend?
"Shall we go down and look at the boat?" he asked, after he had dutifully listened to some more of Mrs. Lorton's remarks on fashion and nobility.
"Right you are!" said Dick; "and if you will promise to behave yourself like a decent member of society, you shall come too, Nell. You won't mind my bringing my little sister, sir?"
Drake smiled, but the smile died away as they walked down to the jetty; he could have dispensed with the presence of Nell's little brother.
"We might go for a short sail, mightn't we?" he said, as they stood looking at the boat. "Pity you didn't bring your gun, Dick!"
"Oh, I can fetch it!" said Dick promptly. "I shan't be ten minutes."
Drake waved to Brownie to bring theAnnie Laurieto the steps, and helped Nell into the boat; then ran up the sail, and pushed off.
"Aren't we going to wait for Dick?" said Nell innocently.
"Oh, we'll just cruise about till he comes," said Drake. "Let me take the tiller."
He steered the boat for the bay, and lit his pipe. It was just as if he had not left Shorne Mills; and, as he looked around at the multicolored cliffs, the sky dyed by the setting sun with vivid hues of crimson and yellow, and at Nell's lovely and happy face, he thought of the world in which he had moved last night; and its hollowness and falsity, its restless pursuit of pleasure, its selfish interests appalled him. He had resolved, or only half resolved, perhaps, last night, that he would "cut it"—leave it forever. Why shouldn't he? Why should he go back?
Even before he had met Nell, he had been utterly weary of the old life; and, even if he had still hankered after it, it was now not possible for him. It was very improbable that he would inherit the title and estates; he had quarreled with his uncle; he had learned the bitter truth, that the women of his set were incapable of a disinterested love. And he had desired to be loved for himself alone. Does not every man desire it?
Why should he not remain as "Drake Vernon," without title or fortune? If he won a woman's love, it would be for himself, not for the rank he could bestow——
"There is Dick!" said Nell.
Drake awoke from his reverie.
"Scarcely worth while going back for him, is it?" he said. "Besides, he'll want to shoot something—and these gulls look so happy and contented——"
"Why, you told him to get his gun!" she said, with surprise. "But it doesn't matter. He's going out in Willy's boat, I see. I suppose he thinks we shan't turn back for him. Isn't it lovely this evening?"
"Yes," he assented absently.
If—if Nell, now, for instance, were to—to promise to be his wife, he would be sure that it was for himself she cared! She did not know that he was anything other than just Mr.Drake Vernon. No carking doubts of the truth and purity of her love would ever embitter his happiness.
"Where are we going?" she asked, turning on her elbow as he steered for the cove where they had lunched the other day.
"I've a fancy to look into that cave," he said. "What a capital place it would be for a picnic! Shall we go ashore for a few minutes?"
He threw out the anchor, leaped to the shore, and pulled the boat in for her. She prepared to jump, as usual, but as she stood, her slight figure poised on the gunwale, he took her in his arms and lifted her out.
Her face went crimson for an instant, but she turned aside, and walked up the beach, and by the time he had overtaken her the crimson had gone; but the grip of his arms had set her tingling, and her heart was beating fast; and yet it was so foolish to—to mind; for had not Brownie and Willy, and half the fishermen of Shorne Mills, lifted her out of a boat when the sea was rough and the boat unsteady?
"Let us sit down," Drake said.
There was a big bowlder just within the cave, and Nell seated herself on it, and he slid down at her side.
"If Dick is angry, you will have to protect me," she said, breaking the silence which seemed to oppress her with a sense of dread.
"I will; especially as it was my fault," he said. "I didn't want Dick—for a wonder. I wanted to be—alone—with you again. I have wanted it every minute since I left you. Do you know why?"
She had grown pale; but she tried to smile, to meet the ardent gaze of his eyes; but she could not.
"Hadn't—hadn't we better be going back?" she faltered; "it is growing late."
But her voice was so low that she wondered whether she had spoken aloud.
"I want to tell you that I have missed you, how I have longed for you," he went on, not speaking with the fluency for which some of his men friends envied him, but brokenly, as if the words were all inadequate to express his meaning. "All the way up to London I thought of you—I could not help thinking of you. All the time I was there, whether I was alone or in the midst of a mob of people, I thought of you. I could see your face, hear your voice. I could not rest day or night. I felt that I must come back to you; that there would be no peace or contentment for me unless I could see you, hear you, be near you."
She sat, her hands clasped tightly, her eyes downcast andhidden by the long dark lashes. Every word he was faltering was making the strangest, sweetest music in her ears and in her heart. That he should miss her—want to come back to her!—oh, it could not—could not be true!
"Do you know why?" he went on, looking up at her with a touch of anxiety, of something like fear in his eyes, for her downcast face told him nothing; her pallor might only be a sign of fear. "It was because I—love you."
She trembled, and raised her eyes for one instant; but she could not meet his—not yet.
"I love you," he said, his voice deepening, so that it was almost hoarse. "I love you."
Just the three words, but how much they mean! Is it any wonder that the poet and the novelist are never weary of singing and writing them? and that the world will never be weary of hearing and reading them? How much hangs upon the three little words! Love: it is the magic word which transforms a life. It means a heaven too great for mortals to imagine, or a hell too deep to fathom. To Nell the words spoke of a mystery which she could not penetrate, but which filled her heart with a joy so great as almost to still it forever.
"Dearest, I have frightened you!" he said, as she sat so silent and so motionless. "Forgive me! It seems so sudden to you; but I—I have felt it for days past, have known it so long, it seems to me. I have been thinking, dwelling on it. Nell, do you—care for me? Can you love me?"
Her hands unclasped and went with a swift motion to her eyes, and covered them. His heart sank with a sudden dread. She was not only frightened; she did not care for him—or was it because she did not know? She was so young, so girlish, so innocent!
"Forgive me—forgive me!" he pleaded, and he ventured to touch her arm. "I have—startled you; you did not expect—it was unfair to bring you here. But I can't take it back. I love you with all my heart and soul. See, Nell—you will let me call you that? It's the name I love above all others—the name I think of you by. I—I won't harass you. You—you shall have time to think. I will go away for—for a few days—and you shall think over——No, no!" he broke off, springing to his feet and bending over her with a sudden passion which swept all before it. "I can't go. I can't leave you again, unless—unless I go forever. I must have your answer now—now! Speak to me, Nell. 'Yes' or 'No'?"
He drew her hands from her face as she rose, and her eyes were lifted and met his. Love's sweet surrender shonein them; and, with a cry of wonder and joy, he caught her to him.
"Nell, Nell!" was all that he could say. "Is it true? You—you love me, Nell?"
She hid her face on his breast, and her hands trembled on his shoulders.
"Yes—yes," she breathed, almost inaudibly. Then: "Do I?"