“By Jove!” exclaimed Eustace to himself, transfixed with amazement. “Now what the deuce can this mean? Here goes, anyhow, for clearing it up!”
He vaulted over the low paling, advanced a step, and then stood irresolute. It occurred to him that he might be—probably was—intruding, and whatever was the matter it could not possibly be any business of his. It was a woman’s voice, too, and somehow it struck him as that of a refined and educated one—in fact, a lady. Though not naturally shy, the Oxonian yet hesitated. He was quick to realise that his intrusion might prove unwelcome to the last degree. Again he paused, but now the distressed one, catching sight of him through the rapidly-thinning foliage, started up in alarm. The knot of the difficulty was cut.
“Miss Dorrien, pray pardon my intrusion,” he began flurriedly. “The fact is I—I heard—er—I—I’m awfully grieved that anything should have happened to distress you. Do believe that?”
His tones, though stammering, were very feeling. His handsome face was thoroughly earnest and in his eyes was a tender sympathetic light. The first shock of his unexpected appearance over, Nellie experienced a feeling of satisfaction in his presence.
“You are very kind, Mr Ingelow; but really it is nothing,” she answered confusedly. “But—No, it is nothing.”
“Won’t you give me a great pleasure, Miss Dorrien—the possibility of being able to help you, or, if not that, of being able to sympathise?” pleaded Eustace, all his former shyness put to flight. What a sweet girl Nellie Dorrien was! he thought; indeed, it may as well be confessed that he had thought about her a good deal since their meeting at Bankside, and also that the chaff with which his sisters had plied him on the subject, had partaken far more of the nature of the “true word spoken in jest” than he allowed to appear. And now to find her again, like this! What susceptible heart aged twenty-two could resist such an appeal as beauty in distress, especially when strongly predisposed in favour of said beauty?
And Nellie? She had met the rector’s son but once since that festive gathering, and then only for a few minutes in a room full of people. But she had greatly liked him, and her interest in him had not been decreased by the cutting, virulent remarks in which her father was wont to indulge from time to time when reminded of the obnoxious youth’s existence. And now, as he suddenly appeared before her in grief, looking so strong and brave and handsome, and withal so gentle and sympathetic, she felt quite soothed by his presence.
“Mr Ingelow, I am in great distress about Roland,” she answered, looking up. “I’ve only just heard of—of that last cruel blow, which happened to him.” (A sob.) “He is ruined—he may be starving now—and we don’t even know where he is. It is cruel to think of. And no one but myself cares a straw whether he is alive or dead,” she added bitterly.
“Don’t say that, Miss Dorrien,” said Eustace gently, his heart somewhere in the region of his throat. “Indeed you are mistaken. We all liked him so much. In fact, my father went up to London to see if—if—we could be of any use to him, although Venn wrote to say it was quite useless, as Dorrien seemed to have made up his mind to cut himself adrift from everybody—in fact, had disappeared, and that it was impossible to trace him. And it was. But don’t be downhearted. We are sure to hear from him soon.”
“Your father did this?” said Nellie. “How good he is!”