Elizabeth took up a shawl which lay on a chair, opened the outer door softly, hurried down the steps and disappeared among the trees.
Mr. Mellen did not give his male guests a very lengthy opportunity to enjoy their claret and cigars; he had no interest in their talk about the political affairs of the country, a recent bankruptcy, the price of corn, or any of the topics which came up, and some time before it might have been expected, he rose, anxious to counteract the dullness by the presence of his wife and sister, both of whom he had regarded all the evening with new tenderness and admiration, as they sat like a couple of rare birds among all those fussy, ill-dressed women. Elsie was still at the piano when the gentlemen entered. Mr. Mellen looked about for Elizabeth, but she was not there.
"She has not come in yet," said old Mrs. Thompson, in answer to his inquiry.
Elsie heard the words—she had ears keen as a little beast of prey.
"One of the servants stopped her," she called out; "servants always are stopping her—mine will be better regulated. Come here, Grantley, and help me in this old song you like so much."
"In a moment, dear," he replied.
Mellen left the room, fearing that Elizabeth might be drawn away by a headache. He had never felt so tenderly solicitous about her. These last weeks of sunshine had made his proud nature kindly genial. He was anxious to atone for all his old suspicions and little neglects of her comfort.
He was crossing the hall, when the outer door opened, and Elizabeth entered. She did not observe him, and he saw her in all her unrestrained emotion. She was deadly white, and rushed in as if seeking escape from some danger.
"Elizabeth!" he called out.
She started as if he had struck her, but she was accustomed now to controlling herself, and after that first trembling fit, threw off her shawl and forced her face into composure.