Part 24 (1/2)

”I tell you it was him.”

”Has he brought back my dove, do you think?”

”No, no; who cares about a dove just now?”

”Nell, I really do care, and my cage is most beautiful and clean. I put in fresh seed and water only this morning; wasn't it lucky?”

”Well, the dove hasn't come,” said Nell; ”you know it was 'perhaps'

about the dove, and about the pony, and about all the jolly things--you're always forgetting that it was 'perhaps.' There, go and eat your lobster, and come back to me when you have done; don't drink too much champagne, or maybe you'll turn giddy. I'll wait here by this window.”

Boris, looking decidedly depressed, hesitated for a moment; then seeing that Nell was resolute, he decided that, even if disappointment were in store, he could all the rest of his life reflect that he had sat up late and eaten lobster salad for supper. He accordingly sidled away in the direction of the supper-room, and Nell, with a light movement, sprang on one of the benches and then into the deep recess of a window. Here, with her cloudy hair all about her, her little face as white as her dress, her eyes big and spiritual in the trouble which vaguely stirred her sensitive soul, she looked out into the night. Her large wings s.h.i.+elded her little form, and n.o.body noticed that one fairy was not joining in the revels.

”I did see him,” murmured Nell; ”I saw his face just for a minute; he pressed it up against the pane and looked in; his hair was all ruffled, and his eyes, his eyes--oh, the thought of his eyes makes me ache so badly. Why doesn't he come in? What is he doing out in the garden? I know he has come back. I know he's not in London; he has come back and he is in the garden, and we are all so jolly, and he so sad. What is the matter? Oh, I know quite well; it's _perhaps_; and the pony, and the dove, and the rabbits have not come home. Wings--I thought I'd be so happy when I had wings, but I'm just mis'ribble I'm just mis'ribble.”

There was a little noise behind Nell; she turned her head to see Boris scrambling up into the seat by her side.

”I had two plates of salad,” he began; ”'twasn't so very nice, not so nice as--why, what's the matter, Nell?”

”Come,” said Nell, taking his hand, ”quick, jump down, he's under the oak tree, just where the shadow is thickest; I saw him move; that's him; let's go to him, Boris; take my hand; let's run to him.”

Boris's hot hand clutched Nell's. They ran quickly along by the comparatively empty s.p.a.ce near the wall, reached the entrance, and flew swiftly across the moonlit gra.s.s.

CHAPTER XVII.

FAIRY AND BROWNIE.

Perhaps it was not the first time that the moon had looked down on a fairy and a brownie running across that old, old lawn. No one could say anything for certain on this point. We all of us have a sort of undying belief in fairies, so perhaps they did exist once, before our hearts had grown too cold and our natures too worldly to understand them. Children know most about them, but even children don't quite believe in them now, in the good old-fas.h.i.+oned way of long ago.

A very pretty fairy and brownie were out now. The moon silvered Nell's wings and put a sort of unearthly radiance into her hair, and Boris, with his bright locks standing almost upright on his head, in his quaint little costume, with his upturned toes and ruffled hands, looked quite like a true denizen of fairy land. Certain it is that the man who stood under the shadow of the oak gave a perceptible start when he saw the fairy and brownie. For a moment the old belief of his early childhood flashed through his brain, then he recognised Nell and Boris, and coming to meet them, he took a hand of each.

”What is it, father?” exclaimed Boris; ”what are you standing out of doors for? I know it's a very warm night, but we want you dreadfully, dreadfully, in the house.”

Boris rubbed himself against his father's knee as he spoke. Nell clutched Squire Lorrimer's other hand, and raising it to her lips, kissed it pa.s.sionately. Nell did not speak at all.

”Come in, father, come in,” repeated Boris; ”and where's mother, and what are you doing out here under the oak tree?”

”Looking at you little people; you make a gay sight,” said the Squire.

In spite of himself, his voice was quite hollow.

”But why don't you come in?”

”I'm not coming in; I'm going back to London again to-night.”

”Why, father?” asked Nell, opening her lips for the first time, and looking at him with great intentness.

The Squire stooped and lifted Nell into his arms.

”I did not want you to see me,” he said. ”I knew you were having your big party to-night, and I had to come to the Towers on--on business.