"Thank you, Sutton," said Nancy, "I expect it is all right," then turning over the note, she was startled to find that it was addressed to her in Mayne's handwriting. She tore it open, and read:
Thursday evening.
My dear Nancy,
It was very unfortunate, that our conversation this afternoon was interrupted, I should much like to have a talk. May I find you in the little book room immediately after dinner? I shall be there anyhow, about nine o'clock.
Yours always,
D. Mayne.
This was dreadful; not only had she failed to keep the rendezvous, but she had been absent the whole of the following night; and had not arrived home, until after his departure. Naturally, to him, the whole affair must present the blackest aspect. What would she do? what could she do? She felt almost distraught, as she wandered out into the garden, and walked up and down the long turf track, in much the same frame of mind, as that, which had kept Mayne afoot for a whole night.
She remembered the evening of the tournament—how he had never come near her, but, how she had caught his eyes watching her gravely, as she and Sir Dudley sang duets. She would write to him immediately, and give him a full account of her hateful adventure in Mrs. Bode's cottage, and she would ask him to arrange for them to have an immediate meeting. Her present position, was insupportable, the secret altogether too heavy a burden. She was not playing the game, in keeping such a page of her past from Mrs. De Wolfe, nor was it honourable to pass herself off, as a spinster, among the young men of her acquaintance. If Mayne had not returned home,—and at least if they had not come across one another,—matters might have remained in abeyance for years; but now that she knew him, and time had softened a far away tragedy, she realized that she loved him; yes, to herself, there was no use in thrusting away, or trying to evade the truth.
The question was, did he love her? Perhaps! probably! Yes, a girl has an intuition in these things; of course there was the money; that was still a rock of offence; but many men had married women with fortunes, and the marriages had not been unhappy!—Quite the contrary, by all accounts; and she could point out to him, that when they were married, he had been the rich partner, and she as poor as a church mouse. Partridge shooting would begin shortly, she would probably see him in a few days—meanwhile she would write. She sat for a long time mentally composing her letter. At last, she heard the motor return, and presently she rose to meet the two old ladies, who were coming towards her across the lawn.
"Well!" she exclaimed, "how did you find Mr. Mayne?"
"Oh, my dear," replied Mrs. De Wolfe, throwing up her hands, "I never saw him in such low spirits,—we really couldn't help feeling very sorry for him,—what do you think? Derek Mayne has gone back to India,—he left for Marseilles yesterday morning."