“Yes, I was wrong to come. Tell me the way,” and she drew her jacket close.

“Don’t look so grieved, dear,” he murmured. “What am I to do? If there was any place—but there is not. See, I will come with you to the station. We shall have to walk, I am afraid; I dare not order a carriage. My poor child, if you had only foreseen these difficulties.”

“Do not say any more,” she interrupted coldly. “I am quite convinced of my folly and am ready to go.”

“Sit down and wait while I get my hat. We must get away unobserved. Suspicious eyes are watching my every movement to-night. I can’t tell you all, but I will soon. Sit down, my darling; I will not be gone a moment. If anyone comes to the door, step through the window and conceal yourself.”

Unlocking the door noiselessly he went out, turning the key after him.

Barely a minute elapsed before he was in the room again.

Warm though the night was he put on an overcoat and turned up the collar so that it hid the lower part of his face.

Locking the door after him, he came up to the table,[53] poured out another glass of brandy-and-water, and got some biscuits.

“Come,” he said, “you must eat some of these. Put some in your pocket. And you must drink this, my poor darling, or you will be exhausted.”

She put back the glass and plate from her with a gesture of denial.

“I could not eat,” she said. “I do not want anything, and I shall not be exhausted. Let us go; this house makes me shudder,” and she moved to the window and passed out.

“Laura, my dear Laura,” murmured Stephen, in his most dulcet tones, “why are you angry with me?”

“I am not angry with you,” she said, and the voice, cold and constrained, did not seem the same as that in which she had greeted him a quarter of an hour ago. “I am angry with myself; I am filled with self-scorn.”

“My dear Laura,” he began, soothingly, but she interrupted him with a gesture.

“You are quite right; I was wrong to come. You have not said so in so many words, but your face, your eyes, your very smile have told me so plainly.”

“What have I said?”

“Nothing,” she answered, without hesitation, and with the same air of cold conviction. “If you had said angry words, had been harsh and annoyed openly, and yet been glad to see me, I could have forgiven myself, but you were not glad to see me. If I had been in your place—but I am a woman. Don’t say any more. Is the station near?”

“My dear Laura,” murmured Stephen for the third time, and now more softly than ever, “more must be said. I am anxious, naturally anxious, to learn whether this—this sudden journey can be concealed.”

It was quite true, he was anxious, very anxious—on his own account.[54]

CHAPTER IX.

“Come,” he said; “it is all right, then. Do not take the matter so seriously, my darling Laura. The worst part of it is that you should have made such a journey alone, and have to go back alone, and at night! That is what grieves me. If I could but go with you—and yet that would scarcely be wise—but it is impossible under the circumstances. Come, give me your arm, my dear Laura.”

A little shiver ran through her frame, and she caught her breath with a stifled sob.

“Come, come, my darling,” he murmured; “don’t look back, look forward. In an hour or two you will be home.”

“Do you think I am afraid?” she asked, and her voice trembled, but not with fear. “No, I am looking back. Oh, Stephen, do you remember when we met first?”

“Yes, yes,” said Stephen, soothingly, and with an anxious, sidelong look about—to be seen promenading the high road with a young woman on his arm on the night of his uncle’s death would be the ruin of his carefully built-up reputation. “Yes, yes,” he murmured. “Shall I ever forget? How fortunate you lost your way, Laura, and that you should have come up to me to ask it, and that I should have been going in that direction. And yet the thoughtless speak of chance!”

And he cast up his eyes with unctuous solemnity, though there was no one in the dark road to be impressed by it.

“Chance,” said the girl, sadly—“an evil or a good chance for me—which? Stephen, I sometimes wish that we had never met—that I had not crossed your path, and so have left the old life, with its dull, quiet and sober grayness; but the die was cast that afternoon. I went back to the quiet home, to the old man who had been my father, mother and all to me, and life was changed.”

“Your grandfather has no suspicion?”

“No, he trusts me entirely. If he asks a question when I go to meet you, he is satisfied when I tell him that I am going to a neighbor.