"You mustn't expect miracles," said she tenderly; "but somehow I feel sure it will all be right, and very soon, too. Aunt Hilda will give in—she cannot persist much longer—or else something will happen."
CHAPTER XXXII
Elfrida stayed awake till twelve o'clock that night. Then she went to bed and slept soundly until her maid next morning called her.
She had said last night she would not marry Ambert. She had not yet, however, said whom she would marry.
She dressed herself and went down to the garden. She always rose early, and was in the habit of taking a little first breakfast in her own room. And now she found that the tiny cup of chocolate and its accompanying roll was as much as she cared for to-day.
She strolled slowly here and there. But presently she left the garden and strolled idly into the meadow beyond it, and, leaning her arms upon the stile, told herself it was lovely to be alone for once, and at this delightful hour, with not a single weight on her mind, not a creature in sight, and her engagement broken off!
Engagements were odious! Never would she submit to one again. They meant waiting and waiting. If ever she were to dream of marriage again, there should be no engagement. Hateful word!
Suddenly a quick light grew within her eyes. Down there in the lower field, quite a quarter of a mile away, some one was walking quickly. A quarter of a mile is a long way for people to distinguish one person from another, but somehow Elfrida was equal to the occasion. She knew at once that the man down there trudging across that field was Tom. She always called him Mr. Blount to people, but to herself of late he had been Tom.
She thought a moment, and then this finished coquette drew a handkerchief from her pocket and held it aloft.
The breeze caught and swayed it most delicately to and fro, but it did not seem to be of much use. At all events, the curate held his even way, and was now nearly across the field without having glanced once in its direction.