But for the constant hard work, the incessant traveling, Lord Neville would have suffered more than he did; for, as the days wore on, and no news of Doris reached him, he began to imagine all sorts of terrible things. One night he dreamed that she was dead, and woke trembling and shaking, half-persuaded that he had heard her voice calling to him.
All day her image haunted him, and he found himself pulling up his horse, and sitting staring vacantly before him, recalling her last words, her shy, passionate kiss; and then he would dash forward, and try and persuade himself that his letters had, in some way, miscarried, and that all would be well.
One morning his servant brought him a letter, and he seized it eagerly, but his face fell as he saw the Stoyle coat of arms on the envelope.
The letter was from the marquis. It was the first he had written, though Cecil had sent him a short report of his proceedings each week, and the contents caused him to spring from his chair. It said:
My dear Cecil, I think you had better come back. It appears that your course of true love, like other persons, is not running smoothly.
Stoyle.
That was all, but it was enough for Cecil. In less than an hour he was on his way to the station as fast as the car could carry him. He was fortunate enough to catch the mail, and, traveling day and night, arrived at Barton Towers just after dinner. The butler started and stared at the young viscount’s haggard face and travel-stained clothes, and in his solemn fashion looked quite shocked.
“Where is the marquis?” demanded Lord Cecil.
“In his room, my lord. I’m sorry to say, dinner is over, but I can serve you——”
“Will you tell the marquis I have arrived, and ask him to see me, please?” said Lord Cecil, interrupting his stately periods. “I shall be ready in ten minutes.”