It was a rather tedious evening for Ella Linton after Phyllis had taken her departure. Why on earth, she asked herself, had she been such a fool as to lay out her plans to have this lonely evening? Then she remembered that two of her guests had meant to stay until Wednesday morning, but had received a letter necessitating their departure for town on Monday night. But this fact should not have condemned her to a solitary evening, Ella reflected. She should have been thoughtful enough to change her own plans to correspond with the change in the plans of her guests. A nice, quiet, contemplative evening beside the still waters may suit the requirements of some temperaments, but it was not just what Ella regarded as most satisfying to her mood of the hour. It was a long time since she had spent a lonely evening, and although she had now rather more food for contemplation than at any other period of her life, she did not feel contemplative.
Then it suddenly occurred to her to ask herself why, after all, should she be condemned to a contemplative evening? What was there to hinder her taking a train to town after she had dined? Once in town she knew that all prospect of contemplation would be at an end.
She rang her bell and told her maid that she had changed her mind in regard to staying another night at The Mooring; she would leave after dinner; wasn't there a train about nine from Maidenhead?
It was when she was about to go down to dinner that she heard the sound of wheels upon the gravel walk. Was it possible that her newly made plans might also be deranged? Was this a fresh visitor arriving by a fly from Maidenhead--she saw that the vehicle was a fly.
There was no one in the room to hear the cry of delight that she gave when she saw Herbert at the porch of the house, the driver having deposited his portmanteau and Gladstone bag at his feet.
He had returned to her--he, whom she fancied to be far away; he who had forsaken her, as she thought, as she feared, as she (at times) hoped, forever. He had returned to her. There was no one now to stand between them. He was all her own.
She flung off the dress which she was wearing,--it was her plainest evening gown,--and had actually got on another, a lovely one that she had never yet worn, before her maid arrived at her dressing room.
"Louise," she said, "send a message downstairs to show Mr. Courtland to his room, and mention that he will dine with me. Come back at once.
I have got so far in my dressing without you; I can't go much further, however."
In a quarter of an hour she was surveying herself in her mirror just as Phyllis had been doing an hour sooner; only on her face was a very different expression from that which Phyllis had worn. Her eyes were brilliant as they never had been before, except once; her face was not pale, but full of soft color, as if she were standing beneath the shadow of a mighty rose-leaf with the sunlight above. Her neck and arms were of the same delicate tinge. Her smile she gave as she surveyed herself was a smile of triumph, very different from the expression on poor Phyllis' features as she flung her hat across the room.
"Mine, mine, mine!" she whispered, nodding with a smile at the lovely thing so full of warm life that faced her with a smile. "He is mine--he has come back to me, I will keep him. I shall be able to keep him, I think."
She had scarcely entered the drawing room before he was beside her, and he had scarcely entered before a servant announced that dinner was served. They were seated at the dinner table before they had exchanged half a dozen words--before she had time to ask him why he had returned.
And at the table, with a servant at each end, what could they say?
Well, she gave in detail, with the accuracy of a railway time-table, the hours of the departure of the various guests, down to the last departed guest, who chanced to be Miss Ayrton. Yes, she was obliged to go up to town to be present at that important function which was to be given in the presence of Royalty, though, she, Mrs. Linton, was convinced that Phyllis would much prefer remaining in the midst of that exquisite quietude which seemed to be found only up the river.
She had wanted her dear Phyllis to stay until the morrow, but poor Phyllis' sense of duty had been, as unfortunately it always was, too great for her inclination.
"Unfortunately?" said Herbert.
"Did I say unfortunately?" she cried. "How funny! I meant of course, unfortunately for her friends--for myself in this particular case.
But, after all, we had a delightful week together. It has done us all good--even you."
"Why the 'even'?" he asked, with a laugh.
"Oh, well, because you are not expected to feel the fatigues of a London season. And then you must remember that you had a yachting cruise which must have done you a world of good," she added, with a smile born of the mood which was on her--a mood of joy and laughter and daring. She felt that she could say anything she pleased to say to him now; she could have referred with a laugh to his running away on that strange cruise of his.
"Yes," he said, "it did me a great deal of good."
He spoke slowly, and her quick ear detected a tone of gravity in his voice. What could he mean? Oh, yes.
"I hope that that last phase of the mine will soon be settled," said she. "It was that which curtailed your cruise, you will remember."
"I certainly do remember."
"I hope the business will soon be settled one way or another. I don't think this running to Paris so frequently is good for Stephen. Haven't you noticed how poorly he has been looking of late?"
"He didn't seem to me to be particularly robust. But I think that he pulled himself together while he was here. Oh, yes! another week will see us free from this business."
"And with an extra million or so in your pockets."
"Well, something in that way."
That was how they talked while the servants were present--about business and money and matters that may be discussed in the presence of servants.
