“What! good Mr. Adam Head, of Cheap-street? I trust he does not want us to lodge any of the King’s officers.”
“There is an officer with him, sir,” said Helena. “A gentleman with lank black hair.”
Before more could be said the two visitors were shown into the room, and the good Rector was courteously receiving them with bows, and no apparent lack of hospitality, though in the dim recesses of his mind there lurked a troubled consciousness that the guest rooms were already full.
“I must present you, sir, to my noble guest, Lord Falkland,” said Mr. Head.
(“After all he does not want to lie here this night,” reflected the Rector, his manner becoming still more cordial.)
“My lord, this is Dr. Twisse, who will, I am sure, be ready to serve your lordship.”
Falkland’s greeting was full of charm. He bowed low to Helena as she was about to glide quietly by them to the door, but the Rector put his hand on her arm and stayed her.
“Wait, Helena,” he said, “I am sure my Lord Falkland will spare a moment to let us thank him for the very kind trouble he took in sending you the last details as to your father. This, my lord, is the daughter of Major Locke, whose death at Marlborough you notified to us.”
Falkland gave a glance full of kindness and pity at the delicate, fair-haired girl; the colour had risen in her pale face, and her blue eyes were bright with tears. He bent down and kissed her hand, vividly recalling as he did so the face of the dead Parliamentary officer lying in the church at Marlborough.
“It was through Mr. Harford, madam, that I learnt your address; being unable to write to you himself while a prisoner, he begged me to send you word of what had passed.”