THE RAJAH WELCOMES A GUEST AND HEARS A STRANGE STORY
The next day was full of business, and Tom gave himself to it with stern self-repression.
He had offered a body of guides and pioneers, picked men, as skilful with the shovel and the scaling-ladder as with the sword, to the British army, which was marching northwards to the relief of Lucknow. His offer had been accepted, and to-day they were to set off for Allahabad, where the troops were congregating. In the early morning he inspected them, and then, having given orders that they should be feasted royally at his expense in the market-place, he harangued them in the presence of a great concourse of people, and, mounted on Snow-queen, marched with them as far as the boundaries of the State.
Following as it did on an exciting evening and a heavy sleepless night, the day exhausted him, and on his return he would not press his pace. He rode back slowly, his mind, to his own comfort and relief, almost a blank, so that it was late in the evening before he reached the palace.
He had left word that he would probably be late, begging the ladies to dine without him, and as he passed into his own quarters he felt glad that he had done so, for he was able for little else but rest. Here, however, an exciting piece of news awaited him. Lady Elton had arrived. He asked how long she had been in the palace, and found that she must have entered the city by one gate as he and his men had left by another. Hoosanee, who was his informant, told him that she had arrived in a well-equipped travelling-carriage, and attended by an escort of European soldiers. These, however, had left her at the gate.
A young lady—the sister, as Hoosanee had been told, of Grace Sahib—came in with her in the carriage, and an English officer whom Ganesh had recognised as the Captain Sahib Liston, had ridden into the city in their company. At the gate of the palace they had inquired for his Excellency the rajah. When Hoosanee informed them of the business on which he was bound, adding that he might not return till late, the ladies had left their names with him and gone on to the zenana, and the Captain Sahib had proceeded to the Residency, where he would probably spend the night.
While Hoosanee was giving his master this news a servant came in with a letter for the rajah. It was from Lady Elton—a rapturous, affectionate, incoherent little note, saying she had seen Grace, and thanking and blessing him for all he had done for them. 'My good Trixy is with me,' she wrote. 'The General would not let me come without one of the girls, and I think she will be a comfort to her sister. I will not see you to-night. When I feel my child's hand in mine my love and gratitude overcome me. I could only weep. I could not speak. But to-morrow morning, as early as you like, we must meet.' And she added, after a few more fervent, incoherent words. 'Both the General and I feel that you belong to us.' Pressing the letter to his lips, Tom wrote an answer hastily.
'My dearest Lady Elton,—I thank God from a full heart that you have come in safely. Command me as if I were your son. It will be my happiness to serve you. To-morrow, since it may not be to-night, I will bid you welcome in person. I am always in the garden early. You are an early riser, I know. If the journey has not tired you too much, perhaps you will meet me there. I must see you alone, if possible. Brotherly greetings and a warm welcome to Trixy. Yours always,
'Thomas Gregory.'
A long night, haunted by the strangest dreams, passed over the young rajah's head. Now he would be chasing Lady Elton about the garden, trying to speak to her, and seeing her elude him, and waking up with a start just as his hand was on her arm. Then he would come suddenly face to face with her, and she would begin an incoherent story, which he could not understand. Again and again he leapt up thinking it was day, and again and again he composed himself to sleep; but, do what he would, he could not rest for the fever of his heart and brain, and before the sun was up he dressed and went out into the garden.
Ever afterwards he remembered vividly the impressions of that morning. He went out into a still and wonderful world. The green things of the earth, the flowering shrubs, the palms, the dark cypresses that lifted their column-like heads above the lower and lovelier foliage, the water that flowed in deep channels by the grass—all these seemed to be asleep. But a soft wind was stirring; far away there was a low confused murmur as of dawning consciousness, and over all stretched a cloudless heaven, pale and mysterious, in the zenith, where the little stars that had shone all night were passing, one by one, tremulously behind the radiant veil of the morning, and, on the eastern horizon, tinged with a dull red, quickening gradually, as if a hand were fanning it, into flame-colour and saffron. The beauty and tranquillity seemed for a few moments to soothe the fever of his heart. He felt a Presence in the garden. The strange words of the night before came back to him. We are stretching out our hands in the darkness—looking for God—and He is here within us. For an instant—a wonderful instant, which he remembered years afterwards with a passionate thrill of gratitude—a wild throb of expectation, the Divine was as near to him as his own quivering flesh and blood.
It was far too early yet for him to expect to see anyone out; but instinctively his feet turned in the direction they had so often taken lately, and, in a few moments, he found himself in the avenue that led from the English ladies' apartments to the pavilion where they were accustomed to meet in the morning.
He had scarcely entered it before he saw at its farther end, walking away from him into the open, the figure of a woman in a long grey cloak. He hastened to overtake it, then stopped, then went on again. Lady Elton? But could it be? The slow pace, the uncertain steps, the bent head, were strangely unlike her. The doubt was soon laid to rest. In the stillness she had heard his footsteps behind her, and she turned and came to meet him. That, too, was a moment which Tom will remember all his life. It was not only the pallor of the once comely face and the attenuation of the form that, when last he saw it, had been so pleasant to look upon in its full matronly beauty; it was the expression of the face, the looking out upon him suddenly like a spectre in the noontide, of that despair which, slowly, slowly, but, as he now knew, surely, had been stealing into his own heart and killing its joy. He sprang forward impulsively and threw his strong young arms about her. 'This is dreadful,' he said; 'I had no idea you were so weak. Why didn't you tell me in your letter?'
'I didn't feel quite so weak then,' she said, drawing herself away with a little smile that seemed to bring the Lady Elton of Surbiton and Meerut back again. 'No, no, you impulsive boy; I am not so feeble as all that. Give me your arm to steady me. There! I am better now.'
'Have they taken care of you? Did they bring you a cup of tea before you came out? Shall I have one made for you now?'
'No, thank you, dear. The little girl's ayah, Sumbaten, took every care of me. I don't think the poor little thing slept at all for fear Grace and I might want anything. Then, you know, I have Trixy to look after me. She is a very good child,' said Lady Elton. She was trying to speak lightly; but he knew very well that the effort was almost too great for her.
He followed her lead, saying he was so glad Trixy had come. They had a little English society in Gumilcund now, and he did not think she would find it dull; and was it true that Captain Liston had come in with them?
'Yes, by the bye,' said Lady Elton. 'It happened rather conveniently. He had been sent to Meerut from Delhi; did you hear how he distinguished himself there? No? Well, I must leave it to Trixy. The foolish children are engaged, you know. The General was obliged to give his consent, though we don't quite see how they are to live. In the meantime they are very proud of one another; and of course Bertie took an additional interest. So he came with us. I believe he is to join the army for Lucknow somewhere near this. But he was to see you and the Resident first.'
'I shall be glad of the opportunity of congratulating him,' said Tom; 'he is a first-rate young fellow, and Trixy was always a great friend of mine.'
As they talked they were walking on quickly, Lady Elton leaning on his arm. There was a secluded spot—a little ferny hollow—at no great distance from the pavilion. The blue waters of the miniature lake lay in front of it, and a little semi-circle of rocks and boulders, down which mimic cascades rushed continually, filling the basins of water in the hollow and keeping moist and cool the delicate mosses and rare grasses and ferns that had made it their home, formed a complete barrier between it and the rest of the garden.
Hither Tom, who could not speak freely until he was sure of perfect seclusion, guided Lady Elton's steps. She broke into an exclamation of surprise and pleasure when he led her in. 'I've brought you here because it is quiet,' he said. 'We can talk.'
He placed her in a low chair, under a fairy-leaved mimosa, drew up a cushion to her feet, and flung himself down beside her. 'Now, dearest Lady Elton,' he said, 'have pity upon me! Tell me about her.'
She was silent for a few moments, looking down upon him, her pale lips parted in a quivering smile, and her eyes dim with tears. 'I was just thinking,' she said, 'that I have not thanked you yet.'
'Would you thank a man for saving himself?' he said reproachfully.
She stretched out her hands with a little plaintive cry. 'Oh, Tom!' she whispered, 'Tom, my son!'
The words were like a spell. All in a moment his simulated calmness fled. He sprang to his feet, and, throwing himself on his knees, seized the pale, worn hands held out to him, and pressed them to his lips. 'God bless you!' he murmured; 'God bless you!'
'But, my dear, you must be quiet,' said the poor lady. 'There, get up, and let me have my hands again. Poor boy! poor boy! Do you care so much?'
'I care more than I can express—more than even you can understand. I thought I loved her then, but now——' and then he pulled up and looked at her strangely. 'Do you know everything?' he said. 'Does the General know? I must explain'—hurriedly. 'I did not know myself until the other day. But circumstances have come to light——'
'Dear child,' she said softly, 'we have always known——'
'My parentage?'
'We know more about you, I expect, than you know about yourself.'
'And still——'
'Sit down here beside me, Tom.' She pushed back the hair from his forehead and looked tenderly into his dark eyes. She was thinking of the past. For the moment the last few dreadful weeks—that chasm between the old life and the new—were blotted out. He was the boy he had been then, and she was his mother, understanding him as no one else did, and thinking of his friendship with a little motherly glow of satisfaction and pride.
'I will tell you the whole truth,' she went on. 'We were on your side—Grace and I. We believed we understood you better than the others; and—it seems a strange thing to say, but it is really true—if you had spoken a little earlier, you might have won our dear girl then. The news of your wealth made the General afraid. You see it was a wonderful change, and these changes of condition will sometimes show the character in such different lights. That is what the General said, at least. Then our dear girl, who, you know, is sensitive, heard some unkind and stupid gossip. It was rather about us than her; but it annoyed her all the more. It is an old story now,' said Lady Elton, the pink colour mantling her face, 'and I only tell you because Grace wished you to know everything. The silly people said we had known all about it long ago—that you would be rich, I mean—and that was why we had taken the cottage, and brought the dear girls next door to you and your mother. It was absurd, of course; but Grace took fire, and the General, who, you know, was against it then, went with her. I argued that he should find out what our dear girl's own feeling was before he gave her his advice, for I had my suspicions, and God knows I would have braved the backbiting of malicious tongues, if it would have secured her happiness and yours; but—well! you know the General. He would not be the man he is—one of the finest soldiers that ever lived—if he was not pretty firm in his own opinion. But what he has seen and heard of you in this dreadful year, what he knows of you, Tom, has changed all that. If our dear child——'
'Why do you hesitate?' said Tom hoarsely.
She paused for a few seconds, as if a wave of feeling too strong to be controlled had swept over her, and then she laid her hand gently on his. 'Will you tell me how it all happened—exactly?' she said pleadingly.
'How we found them, do you mean?'
'Yes.'
He gave the story clearly and rapidly, from the moment when he left Gumilcund for Dost Ali Khan's fort, to that when he saw Grace and Kit in the hermit's hut, and was assured by Bâl Narîn that they were alive. He said as little about himself as he could, and nothing whatever about his feelings. It was a plain record of facts. The story over, he stopped. 'Mother,' he said earnestly, 'I have told you all I can. It is your turn now. You have seen my darling'—his voice broke—'you who know her so much better than any of us—tell me what you think.'
She turned a little away, and looked up into the quivering branches of mimosa. A little striped squirrel was leaping gaily from branch to branch. Above, in the blue sunlit air, black and white mynas were darting. Tiny feathered creatures, bright as living gems, were flashing hither and thither through the light foliage. Ah! how peaceful: how happy, they all were! For a moment she could not speak. Nature, with her thousand joyous voices, seemed to be mocking at her pain. In the next moment she became conscious of those strained-looking, agonised eyes, and said faintly, 'I hope.'
'Is that all you can say?' asked Tom.
'No!' she cried; 'I have more to tell you, but give me time!'
He got up, walked to the margin of the lake, looked down into its waters with eyes that saw nothing, and then came back and stood beside her. 'Perhaps,' he said, 'you had rather say no more just now.'
'No,' she said, 'I must. I promised her. Sit down again, dear, close beside me, and give me your hand to hold. I am so foolish, do you know, that it seems to me sometimes as if all these dreadful things that have been happening were a dream, and then I must hold something not to drift away into confusion. But you are impatient. I will begin.
'She was not so much surprised to see me as they thought she would have been. They prepared her; then we went in together, Trixy and I, and there was such a beautiful colour in her face, such a lovely light in her eyes, that I could scarcely believe what they had told me about her weakness. All the evening they were busy looking after us and showing us the palace, and talking about Gumilcund and you. I thought my dear child was quieter than the others; but you know, she had never the same vivacity as her sisters, so this did not trouble me much. We all went to rest early. She had begged as a boon that she and I should be alone together. I thought she looked at me wistfully before she laid herself down to rest, but I would not let her talk, for I was afraid of exciting her. I was so tired myself and so happy that I fell into a deep sleep at once. What awoke me I can't tell. It was as if a spirit had taken me by the hand and told me to arise. There was a strange pain at my heart, just as if something was suffering near me, and I wondered what it meant. But I opened my eyes and looked round me, and saw the room flooded with moonlight, and smiled at myself for my foolish idea. Then I looked across to where my dear child was lying. She was awake, her eyes wide open, and—and—but I can't tell you. Oh, God! oh, God! I see it still—I shall see it to the end of my days—that look in my darling's innocent eyes!'
There was a pause. Tom, who was nearly beside himself with suspense, pressed her hand convulsively, tried to speak but could not, and sat staring out before him into vacancy.
Presently she went on:
'I was at her side in a moment, but at first she did not know me. I called her by her name, softly, for fear I should be heard, and began humming one of the little Indian songs that I used to lull her with when she was a baby. How I did it I can't tell, for my heart was like to break. Little Sumbaten heard us stirring and crept into the room, and I sent her away to make tea for us. Gradually the stony look left my darling's eyes; she recognised me, and we cried together, and I gave her the tea. Then, when we were alone again, she crept in beside me, and hiding her head in my arms, just as she used to do when she was an infant, told me what I have promised to tell you.'
She stopped again. It was as if the task she had undertaken was too hard for her.
Tom looked up at her pitifully. 'You are torturing yourself without cause,' he said. 'Why should you tell me? All I wished was that the burden should be taken from her. She has spoken to you. It is enough.'
'But I promised; she will ask me,' said poor Lady Elton. 'Don't look at me so, dear. I must find a little more strength, and then—then—we shall rest, my dear child and I.
'You know how she left the fort; but you may not know that the wicked Soubahdar who took her away had a grudge against her father. I must try to tell you about him. He was a man I had always disliked, he was so smooth in his manners—not a common man at all. He had been educated well, and he had lived for many years with Englishmen, so that he knew what our ideas and feelings are. The General had treated him not only as a comrade but as a friend. They had shared the same tent; he knew that honour was dearer to him than life; and he meant—I can see it all now—to humiliate and punish him through her, our darling. When I think of it, Tom, when I think of it, I feel the blood curdling about my heart. But I must not——They left the fort together, this man, Grace, and the child. Grace soon found out that he was her enemy. But for Kit I think she would have killed herself, for she carried poison about with her; but she dared not take him with her and she could not leave him behind. Day after day they went on, travelling by unfrequented ways. In the villages through which they passed they were often subject to insult. He would bring crowds to stare at them, and they would tell her, exulting like fiends, about the massacres and outrages in the English stations. But here and there her gentleness won for them kind looks and words of pity. So they went on till a certain day when poor little Kit, who was nearly worn out, stumbled in the way and said he could go no further. The brute struck him with a whip; Grace caught him in her arms with indignant words. Then the Soubahdar looked at her; it was only a look, but she knew very well what it meant—for Kit murder, for herself worse. What power held his hand it is impossible to say. There was nothing to keep him from striking, but he did not. They went on until late, Grace half-leading, half-carrying Kit. She says that with that look a new spirit and strength seemed to have entered into her. They came to a little village by a river. She and Kit were given a mud hut to spend the night in. She put the child to sleep, but she would not sleep herself. Towards nightfall the Soubahdar came in; he had been drinking heavily. She feigned to be asleep, and he leant over her, muttering awful words of what he would do the next day. She kept her presence of mind; she says she never felt in the least danger of losing it. Then he threw off his weapons, the long knife and revolver he always wore, fell down like a log, and was fast asleep in two instants. I tell you all as she told it to me,' said poor Lady Elton, 'and indeed, indeed, I seem to see it now. It is passing before me like a nightmare.'
'God help you to forget,' said Tom fervently.
'Yes; but I must tell it first—all—all!
'My dear child made sure that he was asleep. Can't you see her—I can—listening, staring out into that dark place. If he had stirred she was lost. But he did not. She was not afraid, she says. All her womanly timidity had gone. Whatever was to be done—and I don't think even then she knew—she was ready. She got up and took careful note of everything. The hut had two doors: one looked towards the river, which was very deep and dark, and flowed close by. It was open, and partly blocked up by the Soubahdar, who had fallen half in and half out of the hut, with his feet towards the river. The other door looked out on the village. She opened it, and saw that the hut they occupied was at a little distance from the others, which were all perfectly still and dark. Then she closed it, fastening the latch with a piece of wire which she found on the floor. Kit was in his first sweet sleep. She crouched down beside him for a few moments to think. They might run away, but he would be sure to find them, and then their death—Kit's death—would be certain. There was only one way to be rid of him. As she was thinking, his wicked words came back to her, and she saw the awful look again. At the same moment Kit gave a little sobbing cry, and called out to her through his sleep. It was that, I verily believe, that gave my darling strength. Softly, as I can well imagine, she soothed him off to sleep again. Then she rose from her knees and went to where the Soubahdar lay, stupid and senseless in his drunken sleep. His long knife was beside him. She drew it out of its sheath, and—and——'
'She killed him!' hissed Tom from between his closed teeth. 'My brave little girl! My heroine!'
'She killed him!' echoed Lady Elton. 'Think of it, with those little slender hands! She did more; she dragged him across the little space of ground that divided them from the river. How she found strength for it God only knows. But before she knew, before she had recovered from the state of frenzy into which his threats had thrown her, she heard a heavy plunge, saw the dark waters part, and knew that her terror slept. All this time Kit was asleep. When it was over she awoke him, whispered that they had a chance of escape, tore him out of the hut so that he should see no traces of what had happened, and before the dawn of the next day had broken they two were far away from the village. You know the rest,' said Lady Elton wearily.
'Yes,' said Tom, 'I know the rest. My poor darling! My poor darling! Is it this that has been troubling her?'
'I am afraid it will never cease to trouble her,' said Lady Elton very sadly. 'If it had happened to anyone else! But Grace! Oh, can't you see—I can—how the gentleness, the tender womanhood, that are her very self, have been wounded—how everything in her, her whole nature, has suffered outrage?'
'Yes, yes! I see—I see too well! But, dearest Lady Elton, those are the wounds that time heals,' cried Tom. 'She has spoken: that is the great point. Don't ask me to despond; I can't. You will comfort her. Troubled! why she should rejoice—exult! The man she destroyed was a scourge to humanity. He was no man: he was a monster. Who knows how many murders he had committed, how many more were being planned by his evil mind? She was an instrument in the hands of God for dealing out to him the punishment he so richly deserved. My only sorrow is that no man was near to save her little hand—' For a moment his voice was choked with sobs; then he looked up, and there was a light, soft and wonderful, in his dark eyes. 'But you will tell her all this,' he said. 'You will tell her that there is no true man living who would not weep as I do that she should have had to deal the blow herself—who would not honour her from his inmost soul for her courage and devotion. Yes'—smiling—'I have no fear now. You will heal her; you will bring her back to us!'
'I will at least try,' said Lady Elton sadly. 'Our darling is in the hands of God.'
There was a depression, a weariness, in her voice which could not be mistaken, and, in fact, the telling of the story had been almost more than she could bear. In a moment Tom was on his feet.
'What a selfish idiot I am!' he cried, 'allowing you to exhaust yourself after this fashion. Come; I can't let you speak another word. Trixy will be looking for you, too. She will think we have spirited you away.'
'Ah, poor Trixy!' said Lady Elton, smiling through her tears. 'She is a little bit of a heroine, too. But she is differently constituted from Grace. She exults over her share in our little skirmish.'
And so, speaking lightly to hide the deep feeling that had almost overpowered them, they left the ferny hollow where the strange story had been told, and made their way slowly through the beautiful garden, radiant now with morning sunlight, to the ladies' pavilion.
Touching and tender beyond expression was the first meeting between Grace and Tom after he had seen her mother and heard the wild tale she had to tell.
It did not come about until the evening of that day. 'We must let her rest,' Lady Elton had said, and he agreed. But, when the daylight had fallen, he found his way to the door of the pretty little room that had been allotted to them. Aglaia saw him, ran in to tell Lady Elton, and then ran away again.
Grace was lying on the sofa, her pale gold hair spread about her like a cloud, white and weak, but with a look of dawning hope on her face that made her poor mother's heart tremble with joy.
'Tom is here,' she whispered, bending over her. 'May he come in?'
Her eyes gave the consent that her voice had scarcely strength to frame. Lady Elton went out and told Tom that he might go in, warning him, at the same time, that she was weak and that he must not stay too long.
In the next instant these two were looking one at the other silently, a strange, new consciousness between them. It was only an instant; but in that instant he took in all the details of the scene: the long, slender figure, in its white draperies, brought out into almost startling relief by the gorgeously embroidered cushions and shawls that lay about it: the pale, beautiful face, pure as an angel's, looking out wistfully from its shadowy cloud of hair: the sweet eyes, into which, for all these days, he had scarcely dared to look, for fear of seeing in them the horror, the spiritual fear, that, when he met it, almost maddened him—eyes, so gentle, now, with half dropped lids that veiled their childlike joy and wonder.
While he paused, spellbound, she smiled and tried to rise, a movement that at once awoke him from his trance.
'Don't! don't!' he cried. 'You mustn't.'
He rushed forward, flung himself on his knees beside the couch, and, with a look of infinite yearning, held out his arms. For a moment she drew back; in the next his love had conquered. He held her in his arms, her head upon his breast, her heart beating against his. It is a moment that will live with him as long as his pulses beat, and his eyes behold the sun. He was so happy that he scarcely knew what he did. All his young love and pity and devotion, all the pent-up torrent of agonised tenderness that, for these many days, had been surging about his heart, seemed suddenly to leap to the surface. Murmuring passionate, indistinguishable words, he rained kisses on her cheeks and lips and brow. She was his—his; and he vowed, by all that was sacred, that neither men nor demons should part them again. He would hold her—he would hold her—against the world! So, for a few moments, he raved.
Suddenly he stopped. She had drawn herself gently away from him, and he saw that her face was pale, and that her lips were quivering like a tired child's. Then, with a swift remorse, he entreated her pardon for his impulsiveness, and laid her head back tenderly against the pillows.
'Forgive me, dearest,' he said. 'It was the first delight. I have been so patient all these days; and you know'—bending over her with a radiant smile—'our feelings will not always keep within bounds. But I promise to be very quiet now, if I may stay a few moments. May I?'
'Yes; but you must sit down and be reasonable,' said Grace.
'Darling, I have never been anything but reasonable. And to-day above all days! Till I had seen your mother, till I knew what she and your father wished, I had made up my mind to say nothing. And you know, dearest, how well I have kept my resolution. Oh! don't you think it has been torture to see you, day by day, as I have done, to know what I know, and not to throw myself before you, and tell you plainly of my love and reverence?'
'Hush, Tom, hush!' said Grace, tears filling her eyes. 'You make too much of me. I am only a poor weak girl.'
'You are my queen, Grace, my angel, my wife!'
She opened her lips as if to answer; but he would not listen. 'No,' he said, 'not a word. A little "Yes," if you like. If you try to say anything else, Grace, I will seal your lips with kisses.'
He drew a chair beside her, and sat down.
'See how reasonable I am,' he said. 'Give me your hand to hold, so that I may know it is no dream, and we will talk about the future.'
'My beloved,' she said softly, looking at him with wistful tenderness, 'let the future care for itself! We have the present—the moment that is passing now. God in His mercy has given us that.'
'Yes,' said Tom, 'the loveliest moment that earth will ever give us, Grace——'
At this moment Lady Elton, who had been feeling a little uneasy, looked in.
'Haven't you talked long enough, children?' she said.
'I don't know about Grace; but I don't think I could talk long enough,' said Tom. And then he jumped up, like the boy he was, and threw his arms round Lady Elton's neck.
'Wish us joy, little mother!' he whispered. 'I have proposed, and she hasn't said "No."'
'Oh! Tom,' she cried, divided between tears and laughter, 'what a baby you are!'
'Am I? Then I am afraid I shall be a baby to the end of the chapter. I have never been so happy in my life.'
'God send you happiness always, dear,' she whispered. 'But your mother, have you thought of her?'
'Mother! it was the dearest desire of her heart that Grace and I should come together,' cried Tom. 'This will be the most delightful news to her. We must all go home together when the troubles here are over, and I can leave my post. Then, perhaps, you and I will persuade mother to come out with us for a cold season.'
'Ah! you are running far ahead,' said Lady Elton, sighing. 'However——'
'There is no reason why I shouldn't—isn't that what you meant to say?' interrupted Tom.
'What I meant to say and what I must say is, that they are waiting for you in the hall.'
'Very polite of them; but quite useless,' said Tom with a little laugh. 'I'm not cowardly as a general rule; but I really couldn't face them to-night. I shall have something to eat in my own quarters. Goodnight, little mother.' Then to Grace: 'Darling, you will promise me to sleep well.'
'I will do my very best,' she answered, smiling.
He left the room by a door that opened on to one of the passages, for he did not wish to pass through the hall. Grace listened silently, until the echo of his footsteps had died away, and then, to her mother's distress, she turned her face to the wall and wept.