“I wished to ask her how my father was,” said Henry, “but she never gave me a chance. Well, now that the excitement is over, go on, Joan.”
“No, sir; if you will excuse me, I don’t think that I will read any more poetry.”
“Why not? I am deeply interested. I think it must be nearly twenty years since I have seen a line of Lancelot and Elaine.” And he looked at her, waiting for an answer.
“Because,” blurted out Joan, blushing furiously, “because Miss Graves doesn’t wish me to read poetry to you, and I dare say she is right, and it is not my place to do so. But all the same it is not true to say that the room wasn’t dusted, for you know that you saw me dust it yourself after aunt left.”
“My dear girl, don’t distress yourself,” Henry answered, with more tenderness in his voice than perhaps he meant to betray. “I really am not accustomed to be dictated to by my sister, or anybody else, as to who should or should not read me poems. However, as you seem to be upset, quite unnecessarily I assure you, let us give it up for this morning and compromise on the Times.”
Meanwhile Ellen was pursuing her course along the beach road towards Monk’s Lodge, where she arrived within half an hour.
Monk’s Lodge, a quaint red-brick house of the Tudor period, was surrounded on three sides by plantations of Scotch firs. To the east, however, stretching to the top of the sea cliff, was a strip of turf, not more than a hundred yards wide, so that all the front windows of the house commanded an uninterrupted view of the ocean. Behind the building lay the gardens, which were old-fashioned and beautiful, and sheltered by the encircling belts of firs; but in front were neither trees nor flowers, for the fierce easterly gales, and the salt spray which drifted thither in times of storm, would not allow of their growth.
Descending from the dog-cart, Ellen was shown through the house into the garden, where she found Emma seated reading, or pretending to read, under the shade of a cedar; for the day was hot and still.
“How good of you to come, Ellen!” she said, springing up,—“and so early too.”
“I can’t take credit for any particular virtue in that respect, my dear,” Ellen answered, kissing her affectionately; “it is pleasant to escape to this delightful place and be quiet for a few hours, and I have been looking forward to it for a week. What between sickness and other things, my life at home is one long worry just now.”