I thought of the haughty self-contained Lucy, with a manner so cold and a heart so aflame, receiving this jumble of words amid the preparation for her marriage,—perhaps when her bridal veil was being tried on, or a present displayed,—and had nothing to say. Explanations would not ease the anguish of that secretly distracted heart.
“Shall we do anything about it, sir? I know where Miss Colfax lives.”
“No, we can do nothing. A matter of that sort is better left alone.”
But I was secretly very uneasy until Clarke came in from the hospital the following day with the glad story that Edgar had improved so much since the sending of this letter that he had been allowed to take an airing in the afternoon. “And to-morrow I am to go early and accompany him to a jeweler’s shop where he proposes to buy a present for the bride-to-be. He seemed quite cheerful about it, and the doctors have given their consent. He looks like another man, Mr. Bartholomew. You will find that when this wedding is over he will be very much like his old self.”
And again I said nothing; but I took a much less optimistic view of my cousin’s apparent cheerfulness.
“He sent me away early. He says that he is going to rest every minute till I come for him in one of Jones’ fine motor cars.”
“It’s a late hour for sending presents,” I remarked. “Three hours before the ceremony.”
“I am to bring him back to the hospital and then take the car and deliver it.”
“Very well, Clarke; only watch him and don’t be surprised if you find us on the road behind you. There is something in all this I don’t understand.”