“I shall never dare to go out alone,” she said hoarsely. “Heaven help me! What shall I do?”
This was quite a couple of months after the meeting in the lane, during all which time the poor girl felt as if she were haunted by the fellow’s presence, and his words were always ringing in her ears.
The time had slipped away, and company had come and gone. The Perry-Mortons had been down for a second visit, ostensibly for discussions with the Rector concerning the decorations of the town house, but Cynthia read it—and told Lord Artingale her reading—that it was to worm round poor Julia, and that was what papa meant. Didn’t he think it was a shame?
Lord Artingale agreed with her that it was, and between them they decided in alliance to do all they could to prevent it; but unfortunately for Julia, this pair of egotists thought of little else but themselves—thoughts that were varied by a little squabbling when Cynthia showed what a peppery temper she possessed.
Julia was looking languidly forward to the middle of May, when the town house was to be ready, and in busy London she felt that she should be free from the haunting presence which afflicted her so sorely that she even felt glad of Mr Perry-Morton’s poetical rhapsodies as a kind of protection, though there was something terrible in his presence. In fact, this gentleman showed his admiration in a way that was painful in the extreme. He said little, but he loved her with his eyes, and when Mr Perry-Morton loved he did it in a sculpturesque manner, sitting or standing in some wonderful position, at a short distance, and then gloating—no, a Philistine would have gloated—he, one of the chosen of the Raphaelistic brotherhood, dreamed over his beloved, mentally writing fleshly poems the while—wondrous visions of rapt joyousness, mingled with ethereal admiration.
But it wanted a month yet to the time for leaving the rectory, and though Julia had not seen her horror again, she felt that he was near, and that at some unexpected moment he would start up, perhaps when she was alone.
Matters there as regarded Cyril were in abeyance. He was, as he told himself, playing a waiting game. Sage would have a nice bit of money, he knew, and he thought it would be a pity to spoil his prospects by hurried play.
Besides, he was in no hurry, for he had the companionship of Frank, and together they went a great deal to the King’s Head, where there was an old billiard-table. At other times they drove over to Gatley, where Lord Artingale placed everything he possessed at their service. There was a good billiard-table there, horses, and wine, and cigars to their hearts’ content.
Then each had a little private business to attend to, about which they made no confidences, and rarely interfered with or joked each other, it being a tacit arrangement that no questions should be asked if Frank was going over to Lewby for a chat with John Berry, or Cyril had made up his mind for a stroll down by the wheelwright’s, where there were a few dace to be whipped for in the stream.
Spring had come earlier that year, and while Luke Ross thought the Temple gardens and the trees in Grey’s Inn poor dejected-looking affairs, down by Lawford everything was looking its best, for Spring’s children were hard at work striving to hide the rusty traces of the wintry storms.