“The fact is that you were so kind and so sweet to me, that I simply had to do what I have done. I saw it all, after we had parted. Under the circumstances, and especially considering the delicate and noble manner in which you had treated me, it was the only thing I could do!
“I should have left a message for you in your letter-box, but there was not a scrap of paper, not even a book out of which I could tear a fly-leaf, in Mr. Linkhaw’s room, nor writing materials of any sort. I have bought this paper at the stationer’s, and am writing this note in an hotel writing-room.
“The dear dressing-bag, and the other beautiful things which I owe to you, I took away with me because it would have broken my heart to leave them, and I felt sure you would be glad to have me take them. Every time I look at them, and all other times too, I shall think of the best man I ever knew or dreamed of. Something very important has occurred, which may turn out to be of the greatest possible advantage to me. It is very uncertain as yet, and I cannot tell you about it at present, but soon I hope to be able to do so.
“In the meantime, please believe in my undying gratitude. Vestalia.”
David drew a long breath, poured a drink for himself, lit his pipe, and sat down to read the letter all over again. He arrived slowly at the conclusion that he was glad she had written it—but beyond that his sensations remained obstinately undefined. The girl had disappeared behind a thick high wall which his imagination was unequal to the task of surmounting. A few stray facts assumed a certain distinctness in his mind: she had evidently gone off quite of her own accord, and she had appreciated the spirit of his attitude towards her the previous day, and she had encountered on this, the following day, something or somebody which might bring her good luck. What kind of good luck? he wondered.
There was an implied promise in her words that he should be informed when this mysterious beneficence assumed shape. This had very little comfort in it for him. In fact, he found he rather hated the idea of her enjoying good luck in which he had no share.
Suppose instead that it didn’t come off. Would she return to him then, or at least let him know, so that he might hasten forward again as her special providence?
Ah, that is what he had wanted to be—her providence. The notion of doing everything for her, of being the source of all she had, of foreseeing her wants, inventing her pleasures, ministering joyfully to the least of her sweet little caprices—the charm of this rôle fascinated him more than ever. He recalled in detail the emotions of delight he had experienced in buying things for her. By some law which he recognised without analysing, the greatest pleasure had arisen from the purchase of the articles which she needed most. There had been only a moderate and tempered ecstasy in paying for champagne, but oh, the bliss of buying her boots, and those curling-irons, and the comb! He thrilled again with it, in retrospect. What would it have been to see her clad entirely in garments of his providing?
But the cage was empty—the bird had flown. Would she come back again? Was there really the remotest hint of such a possibility in her letter?