‘Don’t regret anything you may have left behind you, my sweet,’ he murmured, ‘remember, you cannot have them and me as well.’
‘I regret nothing and nobody,’ she answered, clinging to him, ‘you are my world, dearest. In having you I have everything.’
The young man’s face glowed with delight, as he tore himself away from his enchantress, and left the hotel to have his swim.
For a little time after he had quitted her, Jenny tried to interest herself with the newspapers and magazines which they had purchased the day before. But she was naturally restless, and could not chain her thoughts to anything. She read one or two short stories without knowing what they were about, for her mind would keep wandering back to Hampstead and all that was happening there. Every time a footfall sounded near her room, she fancied it was the waiter bringing a telegram from her father, or a message, perhaps, that he waited below to speak to her. At last her nervous dread, lest he should arrive and interview her without the protection of her husband, grew to such a height that she felt as if she could not remain in the hotel without Frederick, and put on her walking attire with the idea of going to the beach and waiting for him there. But Dover was a strange place to Jenny, and she had no idea which direction Frederick might have taken, nor where the gentlemen bathed, nor if it would be proper for her to go there if she did. Besides, did she not remember her husband saying something about bathing from a boat, in which case he might be miles away from the land. The green downs stretched out invitingly before her; looking so much cooler and less glaring than the sandy beach sprinkled over with nursemaids and children, so she turned her steps in that direction. She carried a magazine in her hand, and she would go and sit on the cliffs she thought, till three o’clock had struck and Frederick had returned home again. A little chill feeling ran over Jenny, as she took her seat on the sward close to the edge of the cliffs whence she could see and hear the sparkling waves as they dashed over the shingly beach, and she moved further inland with a shudder.
‘What an awful thing it would be,’ she inwardly said, ‘if I were to fall over those cliffs now—now, in the very hey-day of my youth and happiness. To leave my Frederick just as I know what it is to love him; just as I have taken the bold step to unite myself with him forever! Yet others have done it; others, I suppose, with hopes as high as mine, and with feelings as strong. Oh, it must have been terrible! terrible! The very idea makes my flesh creep! I must be over-excited and nervous to-day to think of such a silly thing!’ and she drew herself further and further away from the edge of the cliff and tried to interest herself in her book.
It was about this time that Henry Hindes, pale and anxious as to the issue of his errand, walked into the vestibule of the Castle Warden Hotel and asked if Mrs Walcheren were at home. The porter having referred to half-a-dozen waiters in turn, at first said ‘yes,’ but on Mr Hindes sending up his name for admittance, the man returned to say he had been mistaken, and neither Mr nor Mrs Walcheren were indoors.
‘Is it only an excuse, or is the lady really not in?’ demanded Mr Hindes.
‘She is really not at home, sir,’ was the reply, ‘but I did not see her go out; I suppose she went through the garden. Mr Walcheren went out better than an hour ago, for I saw him pass through the hall myself.’
‘Do you know when they are likely to be in?’ next asked the visitor.
‘I can’t say for certain, sir, but their lunch is ordered for three o’clock.’