Part 13 (2/2)

He paused. Mrs. Lorimer said nothing. She was sitting motionless with her soft eyes on the fire.

Mr. Lorimer looked down at the brown head at his knee with growing severity. ”You will, therefore, Adelaide, in deference to my wish--if for no other reason--discontinue this use of Mrs. Denys's Christian name.”

Mrs. Lorimer's lips moved, but they said nothing.

”Adelaide!” He spoke with cold surprise.

Instantly her fingers tightened upon his with a grip that was almost pa.s.sionate. She raised her head, and looked up at him with earnest, pleading eyes. ”I am sorry, Stephen--dear Stephen--but I have already given my friends.h.i.+p to--to Mrs. Denys. She has been--she is--like a sister to me. So you see, I can't possibly take it away again. You would not wish it if you knew.”

”If I knew!” repeated Mr. Lorimer, in a peculiar tone.

She turned her face from him again, but he leaned slowly forward in his chair and taking her chin between his finger and thumb turned it deliberately back again.

She shrank a little, but she did not resist him. He looked searchingly into her eyes. The lids flickered nervously under his gaze, but he did not relax his scrutiny.

”Well?” he said.

Her lips quivered. She said nothing.

But her silence was enough. He released her abruptly and dropped back in his chair without another word.

She sank down trembling against his knee, and there followed a most painful pause. Through the stillness there crept again the faint strains of distant music. Someone was playing the Soldiers' March out of _Faust_ on the old cracked schoolroom piano, which was rising n.o.bly to the occasion.

Mr. Lorimer moved at length and turned his head. ”Who is that playing?”

”Piers Evesham,” whispered Mrs. Lorimer. She was weeping softly and dared not stir lest he should discover the fact.

There was a deep, vertical line between Mr. Lorimer's brows. ”And what may Piers Evesham be doing here?” he enquired.

”He comes often--to see Jeanie,” murmured his wife deprecatingly.

He laughed unpleasantly. ”A vast honour for Jeanie!”

Two tears fell from Mrs. Lorimer's eyes. She began to feel furtively for her handkerchief.

”And Dr. Lennox Tudor,”--he p.r.o.nounced the name with elaborate care,--”he comes--often--for the same reason, I presume?”

”He--he came to see me yesterday,” faltered Mrs. Lorimer.

”Indeed!” The word was as water dropped from an icicle.

She dabbed her eyes and bravely turned and faced him. ”Stephen dear, I am very sorry. I didn't want to vex you unnecessarily. I hoped against hope--” She broke off, and knelt up before him, clasping his hand tightly against her breast. ”Stephen--dearest, you said--when our firstborn came--that he was--G.o.d's gift.”

”Well?” Again that one, uncompromising word. The vertical line deepened between her husband's brows. His eyes looked coldly back at her.

Mrs. Lorimer caught her breath on a little sob. ”Will not this little one--be just as much so?” she whispered.

He began to draw his hand away from her. ”My dear Adelaide, we will not be foolishly sentimental. What must be, must. I am afraid I must ask you to run away now as I have yet to put the finis.h.i.+ng touches to my sermon.

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