him right for his foolhardiness."
"How is Blanche?"
"Cross and snappish; unaccountably so: and showing her temper to me rather unbearably."
I laughed—willing to treat the matter lightly. "She does not care that you should go travelling without her, I take it."
Lord Level, who was passing out before me, turned and gazed into my face.
"Yes," said he emphatically. "But a man may have matters to take up his attention, and his movements also, that he may deem it inexpedient to talk of to his wife."
He spoke with a touch of haughtiness. "Very true," I murmured, as we shook hands and went out together, he walking away towards Gloucester Place, I jumping into the cab waiting to take me to the station.
Mrs. Brightman was better; I knew that; and showing herself more self-controlled. But there was no certainty that the improvement would be lasting. In truth, the certainty lay rather the other way. Her mother's home was no home for Annabel; and I had formed the resolution to ask her to come to mine.
The sun had set when I reached Hastings, and Miss Brightman's house. Miss Brightman, who seemed to grow less strong day by day, which I was grieved to hear, was in her room lying down. Annabel sat at the front drawing-room window in the twilight. She started up at my entrance, full of surprise and apprehension.
"Oh, Charles! Has anything happened? Is mamma worse?"
"No, indeed; your mamma is very much better," said I cheerfully. "I have taken a run down for the pleasure of seeing you, Annabel."
She still looked uneasy. I remembered the dreadful tidings I had brought the last time I came to Hastings. No doubt she was thinking of it, too, poor girl.
"Take a seat, Charles," she said. "Aunt Lucy will soon be down."
I drew a chair opposite to her, and talked for a little time on indifferent topics. The twilight shades grew deeper, passers-by more indistinct, the sea less bright and shimmering. Silence stole over us—a sweet silence all too conscious, all too fleeting. Annabel suddenly rose, stood at the window, and made some slight remark about a little boat that was nearing the pier.
"Annabel," I whispered, as I rose and stood by her, "you do not know what I have really come down for."
"No," she answered, with hesitation.
"When I last saw you at your own home, you may remember that you were in very great trouble. I asked you to share it with me, but you would not do so."
She began to tremble, and became agitated, and I passed my arm round her waist.
"My darling, I now know all."
Her heart beat violently as I held her. Her hand shook nervously in mine.
"You cannot know all!" she cried piteously.
"I know all; more than you do. Mrs. Brightman was worse after you left, and Hatch sent for me. She and Mr. Close have told me the whole truth."
Annabel would have shrunk away, in the full tide of shame that swept over her, and a low moan broke from her lips.
"Nay, my dear, instead of shrinking from me, you must come nearer to me—for ever. My home must be yours now."
She did not break away from me, and stood pale and trembling, her hands clasped, her emotion strong.
"It cannot, must not be, Charles."
"Hush, my love. It can be—and shall be."
"Charles," she said, her very lips trembling, "weigh well what you are saying. Do not suffer the—affection—I must speak fully—the implied engagement that was between us, ere this unhappiness came to my knowledge and yours—do not suffer it to bind you now. It is a fearful disgrace to attach to my poor mother, and it is reflected upon me."
"Were your father living, Annabel, should you say the disgrace was also reflected upon him?"
"Oh no, no. I could not do so. My good father! honourable and honoured. Never upon him."
I laughed a little at her want of logic.
"Annabel, my dear, you have yourself answered the question. As I hold you to my heart now, so will I, in as short a time as may be, hold you in my home and at my hearth. Let what will betide, you shall have one true friend to shelter and protect you with his care and love for ever and for ever."
Her tears were falling.
"Oh please, please, Charles! I am sure it ought not to be. Aunt Lucy would tell you so."
Aunt Lucy came in at that moment, and proved to be on my side. She would be going to Madeira at the close of the summer, and the difficulty as to what was to be done then with Annabel had begun to trouble her greatly.
"I cannot take her with me, you see, Charles," she said. "In her mother's precarious state, the child must not absent herself from England. Still less can I leave her to her mother's care. Therefore I think your proposal exactly meets the dilemma. I suppose matters have been virtually settled between you for some little time now."
"Oh, Aunt Lucy!" remonstrated Annabel, blushing furiously.
"Well, my dear, and I say it is all for the best. If you can suggest a better plan I am willing to hear it."
Annabel sat silent, her head drooping.
"I may tell you this much, child: your father looked forward to it and approved it. Not that he would have allowed the marriage to take place just yet had he lived; I am sure of that; but he is not living, and circumstances alter cases."
"I am sure he liked me, Miss Brightman," I ventured to put in, as modestly as I could; "and I believe he would have consented to our marriage."
"Yes, he liked you very much; and so do I," she added, laughing. "I wish I could say as much for Mrs. Brightman. The opposition, I fancy, will come from her."
"You think she will oppose it?" I said—and, indeed, the doubt had lain in my own mind.
"I am afraid so. Of course there will be nothing for it but patience. Annabel cannot marry without her consent."
How a word will turn the scales of our hopes and fears! That Mrs. Brightman would oppose and wither our bright prospects came to me in that moment with the certainty of conviction.
"Come what come may, we will be true to each other," I whispered to Annabel the next afternoon. We were standing at the end of the pier, looking out upon the calm sea, flashing in the sunshine, and I imprisoned her hand momentarily in mine. "If we have to exercise all the patience your Aunt Lucy spoke of, we will still hope on, and put our trust in Heaven."
"Even so, Charles." The evening was yet early when I reached London, and I walked home from the station. St. Mary's was striking half-past seven as I passed it. At the self-same moment, an arm was inserted into mine. I turned quickly, wondering if anyone had designs upon my small hand-bag.
"All right, Charley! I'm not a burglar."
It was only Lake. "Why, Arthur! I thought you had gone to Oxford until Monday!"
"Got news last night that the fellow could not have me: had to go down somewhere or other," he answered, as we walked along arm-in-arm. "I say, I had a bit of a scare just now."
"In what way?"
"I thought I saw Tom pass. Tom Heriot," he added in a whisper.
"Oh, but that's impossible, you know, Lake," I said, though I felt my pulses quicken. "All your fancy."
"It was just under that gas-lamp at the corner of Wellington Street," Lake went on. "He was sauntering along as if he had nothing to do, muffled in a coat that looked a mile too big for him, and a red comforter. He lifted his face in passing, and stopped suddenly, as if he had recognised me, and were going to speak; then seemed to think better of it, turned on his heel and walked back the way he had been coming. Charley, if it was not Tom Heriot, I never saw such a likeness as that man bore to him."
My lips felt glued. "It could not have been Tom Heriot, Lake. You know Tom is at the antipodes. We will not talk of him, please. Are you coming home with me?"
"Yes.