Part 14 (1/2)

”I am very sorry,” he said, grasping her arm; ”but what can I do? You cannot stay here. That's impossible. There is only one inn in the place, and your appearance there would arouse curiosity, and--oh, _that_, too, is quite impossible! My poor Laura, why did you come?”

”Yes,” she said, slowly, ”it was foolish to come. You are not glad to see me, Stephen.”

He bent over her and kissed her, but she put him from her with a touch of her hand, and rose wearily.

”I will go,” she said. ”Yes, I was wrong to come. Tell me the way,” and she drew her jacket close.

”Don't look so grieved, dear,” he murmured. ”What am I to do? If there was any place--but there is not. See, I will come with you to the station. We shall have to walk, I am afraid; I dare not order a carriage. My poor child, if you had only foreseen these difficulties.”

”Do not say any more,” she interrupted coldly. ”I am quite convinced of my folly and am ready to go.”

”Sit down and wait while I get my hat. We must get away un.o.bserved.

Suspicious eyes are watching my every movement to-night. I can't tell you all, but I will soon. Sit down, my darling; I will not be gone a moment. If anyone comes to the door, step through the window and conceal yourself.”

Unlocking the door noiselessly he went out, turning the key after him.

Barely a minute elapsed before he was in the room again.

Warm though the night was he put on an overcoat and turned up the collar so that it hid the lower part of his face.

Locking the door after him, he came up to the table, poured out another gla.s.s of brandy-and-water, and got some biscuits.

”Come,” he said, ”you must eat some of these. Put some in your pocket.

And you must drink this, my poor darling, or you will be exhausted.”

She put back the gla.s.s and plate from her with a gesture of denial.

”I could not eat,” she said. ”I do not want anything, and I shall not be exhausted. Let us go; this house makes me shudder,” and she moved to the window and pa.s.sed out.

”Laura, my dear Laura,” murmured Stephen, in his most dulcet tones, ”why are you angry with me?”

”I am not angry with you,” she said, and the voice, cold and constrained, did not seem the same as that in which she had greeted him a quarter of an hour ago. ”I am angry with myself; I am filled with self-scorn.”

”My dear Laura,” he began, soothingly, but she interrupted him with a gesture.

”You are quite right; I was wrong to come. You have not said so in so many words, but your face, your eyes, your very smile have told me so plainly.”

”What have I said?”

”Nothing,” she answered, without hesitation, and with the same air of cold conviction. ”If you had said angry words, had been harsh and annoyed openly, and yet been glad to see me, I could have forgiven myself, but you were not glad to see me. If I had been in your place--but I am a woman. Don't say any more. Is the station near?”

”My dear Laura,” murmured Stephen for the third time, and now more softly than ever, ”more must be said. I am anxious, naturally anxious, to learn whether this--this sudden journey can be concealed.”

It was quite true, he was anxious, very anxious--on his own account.

CHAPTER IX.

”Come,” he said; ”it is all right, then. Do not take the matter so seriously, my darling Laura. The worst part of it is that you should have made such a journey alone, and have to go back alone, and at night!

That is what grieves me. If I could but go with you--and yet that would scarcely be wise--but it is impossible under the circ.u.mstances. Come, give me your arm, my dear Laura.”