"What is it?" she asked, all apprehension.
"Something good, Doris, but I can't tell you until you sit down."
"Good!" She forced a smile. She would not hurt his feelings, though
apparently he had nothing very important to tell her after all. Poor
Doris! all the big things in her life nowadays were of the evil sort.
"Well, why don't you tell me, Teddy?"
"Because it's so tremendously good.'"
"Oh!" There was no mistaking his earnestness. Her mind turned quickly to
Bullard. Had Teddy found out something?
"Doris, if you were given one wish, what would you wish for? You know, you can say anything to me."
She did not hesitate. "I'd wish that father were free from a great and terrible trouble."
"Well, we may hope for that, I'm sure. But if—if the wish would bring about something that—that you had believed past hoping for—what then?" He did not wait for her answer. "Doris," he said gently, "somebody has come home, safe and sound…. I had a letter from Alan Craig this morning. He is at Grey House now." He paused, puzzled. She was taking it so much more calmly than he had expected. The room was dusky and the fire-light deceptive, so he could hardly read her face. But presently he descried the glint of tears, and next moment she drooped and hid her eyes in her hands.
He spoke again. "For a reason which I don't yet know, Alan has come home secretly. He asks me to beg you to trust him for a little while. He must have a very strong reason for the secrecy. He wants my advice and help, so I'm leaving for Scotland to-night. If you have any message, please give me it now, Doris, and I'll leave you. You must want to be alone."
He waited, leaning against the mantel, watching her bowed head, torn betwixt loyalty and longing. Minutes passed before she uncovered her eyes and sat up. "Teddy," she said, "please sit down. There are things I must tell you before you go to Scotland." She wiped her eyes and put away the handkerchief as if for good. "You must be thinking me a very strange and heartless girl. You must be asking yourself why I am not overjoyed at the wonderful news. Don't speak. I suppose I don't properly realise it yet. Alan is alive and well!—I never was so glad of anything; I'll never cease to be glad of it. And just for a moment nothing else in the world seemed to matter. But—but I can't escape—I am like a prisoner told of a great joy which she can never look upon—"