Imogene Lear was naturally open and frank, and the deceit which she now practiced on her father was something altogether new and foreign to her noble nature, and it troubled her exceedingly, but then her love for Edgar Sherwood was strong, and love prevailed over conscience.
While continuing her walk up and down the garden path she stopped short, as if having taken some sudden resolution.
“I will go—I ought to gratify him!” she muttered to herself. Sitting down upon a bench near by, and opening a folded slip of paper, she read:
“Dear Imogene—I have just returned from the war-path safe, and wish to see you very much. We are to have a ball at the garrison to-night. You must come—do not refuse, dearest one. If you do I shall be miserable all the evening. As soon as your father has retired for the night, hasten to our old place of meeting with your brave steed, where I shall be in waiting. Adieu, my dearest, for a few hours.
E.”
When she had finished reading the note, she pressed it to her lips and kissed it fervently.
“No, Edgar, I will not refuse: I will go!” she murmured, and thrusting the letter into her bosom, she glided softly into the house.
A few hours after sunset, and when it was dark, Imogene again stole forth into the garden. This time she was closely muffled in an ample cloak and her head was donned with a riding-hat.
After proceeding a short distance she stopped and listened. Perfect stillness reigned around the cottage. Then there came a low whistle from the lower end of the garden, and she tripped along over the sanded walk to the place, on reaching which she called:
“Jeff?”