“And—and Una? Does she agree to all this?”
“Una agrees to everything,” he said, impatiently. “She herself stipulated that it should be done quietly, and”—with a smile—“if this is not quietly, I do not know what is. And now, my dear mother, go and make what preparations are absolutely necessary, and make them yourself, and unaided. Remember there must be no approach to any wedding party. We are only going to take an outing for a day or two. You understand?”
“I understand,” she faltered; “and when will you be back, Stephen?” she asked, pitiably. “I—I—you won’t be away long, Stephen? I shall miss her so.”
Stephen patted her on the shoulder.
“Don’t be afraid, mother. We shall not be away too long. I am too proud of my beautiful bride to hide her away. I want to see her here, mistress of the Hurst. My wife! my wife! Hush! here she comes. Do not upset her.”
And, with a quick, noiseless step, he went out as Una entered.
Framed in the doorway, she stood for a moment like a picture. Paler and slighter than in the old days, she had lost none of her beauty. Stephen had cause to be proud of his bride. There would be no lovelier woman in Wealdshire than the future mistress of the Hurst. And yet, if Jack could have seen her that moment, what agony her face would have cost him; for his eyes, quickened by his passionate love, would have read and understood that subtle change that had fallen on the beautiful face; would have read the settled melancholy which sat enthroned on the dark eyes, and gave them the dreamy, far-away look which never left them for a moment.
“Communing with the past, she walked;
Alive, yet dead to all the world.”
Slowly she crossed the room, and stood just where Stephen had stood, and looked into the fire; but not as he had looked—triumphantly, joyfully; but with an absent, dreamy air.
Mrs. Davenant put out her hand, and touched her arm.