Part 18 (2/2)

”You know Mr. Lorrimer very well, then, I suppose?” she remarked.

”Let me see,” said Ideala, awaking from her trance, ”that is a question I often ask myself. And sometimes I say I _do_ know him very well, and sometimes I say I don't. I go to the Great Hospital frequently to read, and to look up information, and he helps me. He is a man who makes an instant impression, but he is many-sided, and, now you ask me, I think on the whole that I do not know him well. I should not be surprised to hear any number of the most contradictory things about him.”

”It is not a nice character to have,” the lady said.

”No,” Ideala answered, ”not at all nice, but very interesting.”

When at last the day arrived she felt an unusual impatience to see him.

And she was in a strange flutter of nervous excitement. Should she tell him of those things which she had not been able to confide to him on the last occasion of their meeting? Could she? No; impossible! But she must see him, nevertheless. The desire was imperative.

The servant she had been accustomed to see met her at the door of the Great Hospital. She fancied he looked at her peculiarly. He said he had heard something about Mr. Lorrimer being absent that day, but he would inquire. He left her, and, returning in a few minutes, told her Mr.

Lorrimer was not there.

”Did he leave no note, no message for me?” Ideala asked, faintly.

”No, madam, nothing,” was the reply.

CHAPTER XXII.

For quite three months we heard nothing of Ideala, but we were not alarmed, as she often neglected us in this way when she was busy. At last, however, Claudia received a note from her, written in pencil, and in her usual style.

”It has been dull down here to a degree,” she said. ”I am beginning to think we are all too respectable. Are respectability and imbecility nearly allied, I wonder? But don't tell me; I don't want to know. All the trouble in the world comes from knowing too much. And then, I'm so dreadfully clever! If people take the trouble to explain things to me, I am sure to acquire some of the information they try to impart. I heard of the block system the other day. It sounded mysterious. I like mystery, and I went about in daily dread of having it all made plain to me by some officious person. One day I was sitting on a rail above the line watching the trains. A workman came and sat down near me. It is very hard to have a workman sit down near you and not to talk to him, so we talked. And before I knew what was coming, he had explained the whole of that block system to me. Only fancy! and I may never forget it! It is quite disheartening.

”He said he was a pointsman, and I asked him if he would send a train down a wrong line for fifty pounds. He said fifty pounds was a large sum, and he had a mother depending on him! The people here are delicious. I think I shall write a book about them some day.

”Have you felt the fascination of the trains? My favourite seat here is a lovely spot just above where they pa.s.s. I can look down on them, and into them. The line winds, rather, through meadows and between banks, where wild flowers grow; and under an ivied bridge or two, and by some woods. And the trains rush past--some slow, some fast; and now and then comes one that is just a flash and roar, and I cling to the railing for a moment till it pa.s.ses, and quiver with excitement, feeling as if I must be swept away. I look at the carriage windows, too, trying to catch a glimpse of the people, and I always hope to see a face I know.

In that lies all the charm.

”I seem to be expected in town, and some Scotch friends have asked me to pay them a visit _en route_. I should like to go that way above everything; one would see so much more of the country! But I daren't go to London while the Bishop is there. He is making a dead set at me again (confirmation this time), and I am afraid if he heard of my arrival he would do something rash--dance down the Row in his gaiters, perhaps--which might excite comment even if people knew what he was after.”

And then she went on to say she had been a little out of sorts, and very lazy, and she thought the north country air would brace her nerves, and, if we would have her, she would like to go to us at once.

She arrived late one afternoon, and I did not see her until she came down to the drawing-room dressed for dinner.

I had not thought anything of her illness, she made so light of it, and I was therefore startled beyond measure when she appeared.

”Why, my dear!” I exclaimed, involuntarily, ”what have they done to you? You're a perfect wreck!”

”Well, so _I_ thought,” she answered; ”but I did not like to tell you. I was afraid you might think I was trying to make much of myself-- wrecks are so interesting.”

There was a large party staying in the house, and I had no opportunity of speaking to her that evening; but the next morning she came into my studio with a brave a.s.sumption of her old manner. I cannot tell how it was that I knew in a moment she had broken down, but I did know it, and I could only look at her. Perhaps something in my look showed her she had betrayed herself, for all at once her false composure forsook her, and she stretched out her hands to me with a piteous little gesture:

”What am I to do?” she said. ”Will it always be like this?”

<script>