Part 16 (1/2)

She answered something under her breath, which he construed to be ”Yes.”

She had been feeling the cruelty of it all, that their last hour together should be taken up by talking of commonplaces. At the sudden change in his tone--although it was unhappy, there was pa.s.sion in it, and the chill seemed to pa.s.s away from her heart--the tears filled her eyes, overflowed them, ran warmly down her cheeks.

At the sight of those tears the young man forgot everything, except that she was lovely and he loved her and she was crying for him. He leaped to her side and dropped on his knees. He put both his arms about her and pressed her closely to him.

”Are you crying because I am going, my darling?” he said. ”Good heavens!

don't cry--I'm not worth it. And yet I shall remember, when the world is between us, that you cried because I was going, you angel of mercy.”

An older woman than Nelly might have had the presence of mind to ask him why he was going. But she was silent. She felt it over-whelmingly sweet to be held so, to feel his hand smoothing her hair. The bunch of lilies of the valley she had been wearing was crushed between his breast and her breast. The sweetness of them rose up as something exquisite and forlorn. His hand moved tremblingly over her hair to her cheek.

”Give me a kiss, Nelly,” he said, ”and I will go. Just one kiss. I shall never have another in all my days. Good-bye, my heart's delight.”

For a second their lips clung together. Then his arms relaxed. He put her down gently into a chair. She lay back with closed eyes. She heard the door shut behind her. Then she sprang to her feet, realising that he was gone and it was too late to recall him.

Why should he go? she asked herself, as, with trembling hands, she arranged the disorder of her hair. Then the merely conventional came in, as it will even at such tense moments. She asked herself how she would look to his sister, if she appeared at this moment; to the maid, who might be expected at any moment bringing in the lamp. The room was dark but for the firelight. How would she look, with her tear-stained visage and the disorder of her appearance? She could not sit and make small talk. That was a heroism beyond her. And she was afraid to speak to anyone lest she should break down. She adopted a cowardly course.

Afterwards she must explain it to Mrs. Rooke somehow. She put the consideration of how out of sight: it could wait till the turmoil of her thoughts was over.

She stole from the room, let herself out quietly, and was grateful for the dark and the cool, frosty air. About five minutes after she had gone Mrs. Rooke came in laden with small parcels.

”The Captain and Miss Drummond are in the drawing-room, ma'am,” said the maid.

”Then you can bring tea.”

Mrs. Rooke opened the drawing-room door leisurely, turning the handle once or twice before she did so. She was excited at the thought of the things that might be happening the other side of the door. Supposing that Nelly had discovered that life with a poor foot-captain was a more desirable thing than life with a well-endowed baronet, a coming man in the political world to boot! Supposing--there was no end to the suppositions that pa.s.sed through Mrs. Rooke's busy brain in a few seconds of time. Then--she entered the room and found emptiness.

”You are sure that neither the Captain nor Miss Drummond left a message?” she said to the maid who brought the tea.

”Quite sure, ma'am. I had no idea they were gone.”

”Do you suppose they went away together, Jane?”

Mrs. Rooke was ready to accept a crumb of possible comfort from her handmaid.

”I do remember now, ma'am, that when I was pulling down the blind upstairs I heard the hall-door shut twice. I never thought of looking in the drawing-room, ma'am. I made sure that the noise of the blinds had deceived me into taking next-door for ours.”

”Ah, thank you, Jane, that will do.”

The omens were not at all propitious. Mrs. Rooke was fain to acknowledge as much to herself dejectedly. Nor did Cyprian think them propitious when taken into counsel. When she went downstairs, she found that her brother had come in. He was to spend the last evening at his sister's house.

Captain Langrishe's face, however, did not invite questions. He made no allusion at all to the happenings of the afternoon, and his sister felt that she could not ask him. She had a heavy heart for him as she bade him good-night, although she called something after him with a cheerful pretence about their rendezvous next morning.

”It _is_ nine-thirty at Fenchurch Street, isn't it?” she asked.

”Do you think you will ever manage it, Bel?” Captain Langrishe smiled at her haggardly.

”Oh, yes, easily--by staying up all night,” she answered.

But her heart was as heavy as lead for him.