CHAPTER XIII.
Stephen rose softly and watched him from behind the window curtains until Gideon had vanished amongst the trees; then Stephen went out and smiled down upon his mother with the air of a man who had just succeeded in accomplishing some great work for the good of mankind at large.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, mother,” he said. “I have been making some arrangements with the worthy man, her father.”
Mrs. Davenant looked up with the nervous, deprecatory expression which always came upon her face when she was in the presence of her son.
“It does not matter, Stephen; I am glad to rest. Where has the man gone? He—he—doesn’t he look rather superior for his station, and why does he look so stern and forbidding?”
“A life spent in solitude, away from the world, has made him reserved and cold,” replied Stephen, glibly, “and, of course, he feels the parting from his daughter.”
“Poor man—poor girl!” murmured Mrs. Davenant.
Stephen looked down at her with a contemplative smile, while his ears were strained for the returning footsteps of Gideon Rolfe.
“Yours is a sweetly sympathetic nature, my dear. I can already foresee that the ‘poor girl’ will not long need anyone’s sympathy. You are already prepared to open your arms and take her to your heart. Is it not so?”