“I know you hate expressions of gratitude,” said Edith, after a pause; “but I can only say that my own gratitude is beyond expression. You have given me hope—”
“Say nothing about it,” said Dudleigh, interrupting her. “That will be the best thanks, though really I have done nothing to merit thanks. Duty and honor both impelled me to serve you, without mentioning—any—a—deeper and stronger feeling.”
Edith again looked at the floor. She suspected the existence of this stronger feeling and did not altogether like to think of it. Her own feelings toward him were singularly cool, and she did not wish him to be otherwise. His general calmness of demeanor was very pleasant to her, and his occasional allusions to any deeper sentiment than common, few though they were, troubled her greatly. What if he should seek as his reward that which he surely had a right to hope for—her hand? Could she give it? On the other hand, could she have the heart to refuse it? The alternative was not pleasant.
On the following day, while Edith was waiting in great impatience, a stranger came to the Hall to call upon her.
The stranger was a small-sized man, with round shoulders, gray hair, bushy eyebrows, and sallow skin. He wore spectacles, his clothes were of good material, but rather loose fit, betokening one who was indifferent to dress. His boots were loose, his gloves also, and an umbrella which he carried, being without a band, had a baggy appearance, which was quite in keeping with the general style of this man's costume. He looked to Edith so much like a lawyer that she could not help wondering at the completeness with which one's profession stamps itself upon the exterior.
“I am sent,” said the stranger, after a brief, stiff salutation, “by Lieutenant Dudleigh, to communicate with you about your present position. I take it for granted that we shall not be overheard, and propose to carry on this conversation in as low a tone as possible.”
Saying this, the stranger took a quick, sharp glance through his spectacles around the room.
His voice was dry and thin, his manner abrupt and stiff and business-like. Evidently he was a dried-up lawyer, whose whole life had been passed among parchments.
Edith assured him that from where they were sitting they could not be overheard if they spoke in a moderately low voice. This appeared to satisfy the stranger, and after another survey of the room, he drew forth from his breast pocket a wallet filled with papers—a well-worn, fat, business-like wallet—and taking from this a card, he rose stiffly and held this toward Edith. She took it, and glancing over it read the address:
HENRY BARBER,
SOLICITOR,
Inner Temple, London.