No answer.
The question was repeated.
“I have a story to tell,” said Mrs. Grover.
“Bah, silly woman! I have no desire to listen to your tales. I believe you are half crazed.”
“No I am not; listen. Once I was a young girl, as innocent and happy as a spring bird, but a gentleman saw my pretty face. He fell in love with me—he wrote me letters. I could show you them if I wished, for I have borne them on my heart ever since. We used to meet on this very spot—it was here that I first felt his warm lips and the pressure of his hand, so soft and small—it was here that I first learned what it was to love—to have a beating heart when he came near me—to tremble with delight when I heard him speak.
“He did not treat me at first as gentlemen treat poor girls. One day he told me to meet him at Broxbridge. I made an excuse for leaving home that day and night, and met him at the corner of a dark street as he had appointed.
“I asked him no questions, I felt no fears. I loved him too well for that.
“He took my hand in his, and asked me if I would go with him. I kissed that hand, and said I would go wih him to the end of the world.”
“Goodness me, what have I to do with your early days? What care I for your romantic love story?” ejaculated Laura Stanbridge. “Have you brought me hither for no better purpose than this?”
“You will know all in good time. When it was quite dark he took me to a little church which stands about half a mile from the town. In this church there was only one person—it was a young gentleman, in a white robe, who stood at the communion table between two wax tapers, with a book in his hand.”