He put on his hat and the thick inverness he wore in all weathers, and went away, and Doris sat looking dreamily before her.
Then, suddenly, she got up. She would take his advice and go into the meadows—for the meadows meant the open air to her—and as she was going she would take Cecil Neville’s handkerchief and place it on the bank as he had requested.
She put on her hat and jacket, and, possibly for the convenience of carrying, thrust the handkerchief in the bosom of her dress, where it lay hidden all the preceding day, and started.
It was a glorious morning, with only a feather of cloud here and there in the sky, and the birds sang as if winter were an unknown season in England.
With her stage copy of “Romeo and Juliet” under her arm, Doris Marlowe, the simple child of nature, the famous actress, made her way to the meadows.
The Barton folks have something else to do than wander in their meadows, and Doris did not meet a soul; the great elms, which threw their shadows over the brook, were as solitary as if they had been planted in Eden. But lonely as the spot was, Doris peopled it with memories; and she stood by the brook and recalled the vision of the powerful figure on the great horse, as it appeared before her the moment prior to its being hurled at her feet.
“How strange that he should have been at the theatre last night!” she thought. “How curious it must have seemed to him, seeing me there as Juliet! I wonder whether he was sorry or glad!”
She could not answer the question to her satisfaction, but she stood motionless for a moment or two, recalling the words he had spoken as he stood beside the fly last night.
Then she took the handkerchief from her bosom, and, folding it with careful neatness, placed it on the bank where she had sat.
“It is not likely that any one will come here before he comes to fetch it this afternoon,” she said.