Chapter Twenty.
Like an Old Picture.
Tottie was right when she said that several young men were coming to dinner. They were all more or less at home however; they were accustomed to the house and its ways. I saw when I entered the drawing-room that I was the greatest stranger present. Captain Valentine and his brother were both in the room, but Lady Ursula Redmayne was not one of Mr Gray’s guests. I had thought to startle Mr Gray by the magnificence and quaintness of my toilet; but I must own that I forgot all about him when I glanced up and encountered an earnest, puzzled, respectful look from the wide-open eyes of my cousin Tom. Like a flash my mind reverted to a memory which a moment ago I had forgotten. I was back again in my room reading Cousin Geoffrey’s will. I blushed all over as the hateful remembrance of the conditions of that will filled my brain.
“I cannot see this visit out,” I said, under my breath; “I cannot even spend a second night under this roof. I must go away, I must return home, for never, never can I fulfil the conditions of Cousin Geoffrey’s will.”
At this moment Captain Valentine came up and offered me his arm. I was relieved to find that my other cousin was not to take me in to dinner; but matters were scarcely improved for me when I discovered that he sat exactly at the opposite side of the table, and that I could scarcely raise my eyes without encountering his.
“We were greatly disappointed not to meet you in the Chamber of Myths,” said Captain Valentine. “I think Lady Ursula very nearly cried. The fact is, you have roused her profoundest interest, Miss Lindley.”
“I am very much obliged to Lady Ursula,” I answered.
“It was cruel to disappoint us all,” pursued Captain Valentine, “particularly when you gave no adequate reason.”
“That was just it,” I retorted. “Had I come I should not have been entertaining. I had no news to bring—I had nothing to say.”
“But you promised to tell us something of the contents of the letter.”
“I found I could not keep my promise. That letter, as far as we, any of us, are concerned, might as well never have been written.”
“Indeed!” Captain Valentine looked at me long and curiously. I kept my eyes fixed on my plate.
When he spoke next it was on matters of indifference.
Presently there fell a silence over most of the company. Captain Valentine bent towards me, and said in a low voice, almost a whisper:
“No one can tell a better story than my brother Tom; you must listen to him.”
After this whisper there was a kind of hush, and then the one voice, deep and musical, began to speak. It held every one under its spell. I forget the story now, but I shall always remember how the voice of the speaker affected me; how the turmoil and irritation in my breast first subsided, then vanished; how Cousin Geoffrey’s will sank out of sight; how his odious conditions ceased to be. By degrees the enthusiasm of the narrator communicated itself to at least one of his listeners. Tom Valentine was relating a personal experience, and step by step in that journey of peril which he so ably described I went with him. I shared his physical hunger and thirst; I surmounted his difficulties; I lived in the brave spirit which animated his breast. In the end his triumph was mine.
I suppose there was something in my face which showed a certain amount of the feeling within me, for by degrees Tom Valentine ceased to look at any one but me.
There was quite a little applause in the room when his story came to an end, but I think he sought and found his reward in the flashing and enthusiastic verdict which came from my eyes, although my lips said nothing.
After dinner, in the conservatory, my cousin came up and spoke to me.
“You liked my story?” he asked.
“I did not tell you so,” I answered.
“Not with your lips. Sit down here. I have another adventure to relate, and it is not often that a man’s vanity is soothed by such a listener as you are.”
He began to speak at once, and again I forgot Cousin Geoffrey under the spell of my cousin’s voice. He told me two or three more of his adventures that evening. I made very few comments, but the hours flew on wings as I listened. No one interrupted us as we sat together in the conservatory; but although I remembered this fact with burning cheeks, later on, it passed unnoticed by me at the time. Suddenly my cousin stopped speaking.
“You have been a very kind listener,” he said. “I did not know a girl could care so much just for a man’s mere adventures. I’m going back to Africa next week. I shall think of you in my next moments of peril.”
Then I remembered Cousin Geoffrey’s will, and all that Tom Valentine’s going away meant to my family and me.
“Must you go in a week? must you really go in a week?” I said excitedly.
“I have made my arrangements to go in about a week,” he replied, starting back a little and looking at me in astonishment. I knew why he looked like that. The regret in my tone had been unmistakable.
Before I could reply Tottie rushed in.
“You two,” she exclaimed; “you really must come to make up the number we want in our round game.”
Laughter filled her eyes and bubbled round her lips.
“Come, come,” she said; “we can’t do without you, or rather the game can’t.”