“If you will come to the window, Miss Ffolliot,” he said, “I think you will see something which will relieve some part of your anxiety at any rate.”
I hastened eagerly to his side. Only a few yards away, walking steadily in the middle of the hard, white road, was a figure in sombre black. His shoulders were bent, and his pale face downcast. His whole appearance was that of a weary and dejected wanderer. These things I realized more completely afterwards; for the present a sense of almost intolerable relief drowned every other motion. It was my father—he had returned.
I should have rushed out to him, but Bruce Deville laid his hand very softly upon my shoulder. I could not have believed that any touch of his could be so gentle.
“I wish you would take my advice, Miss Ffolliot,” he said. “Take the path through the plantation home, and don’t let your father see you leaving here. It would be better, would it not, Adelaide?” he added.
She looked at me.
“Yes, it would be better,” she said. “Do you mind? You will be at home as soon as he is.”
I could not but admit that the advice was good, bearing in mind my father’s words when he found me there only a few days before. Yet it galled me that it should have been offered. What was this secret shared between these three of which I was ignorant? I declared to myself that I would know as soon as my father and I were alone together. I would insist upon all these things being made clear to me. I would bear it no longer, I was resolved on that. But in the meantime I was helpless.
“Very well,” I answered; “perhaps you are right, I will go by the footpath.”
I left the room abruptly. Mr. Deville opened the front door for me, and hesitated with his cap in his hand. I waved him away.
“I will go alone,” I said. “It is quite light.”