"Lord Ravenel!"
John uttered this exclamation—and no more. I saw that this sudden meeting had brought back, with a cruel tide of memory, the last time they met—by the small nursery bed, in that upper chamber at Enderley.
However, this feeling shortly passed away, as must needs be; and we all three began to converse together.
While he talked, something of the old "Anselmo" came back into Lord Ravenel's face: especially when John asked him if he would drive over with us to Enderley.
"Enderley—how strange the word sounds!—yet I should like to see the place again. Poor old Enderley!"
Irresolutely—all his gestures seemed dreamy and irresolute—he drew his hand across his eyes—the same white long-fingered, womanish hand which had used to guide Muriel's over the organ keys.
"Yes—I think I will go back with you to Enderley. But first I must speak to Mr. Jessop here."
It was about some poor Catholic families, who, as we had before learnt, had long been his pensioners.
"You are a Catholic still then?" I asked. "We heard the contrary."
"Did you?—Oh, of course. One hears such wonderful facts about oneself. Probably you heard also that I have been to the Holy Land, and turned Jew—called at Constantinople, and come back a Mohammedan."