Which was the very best of advice, but, like much good advice, impossible to follow. I did not sleep at all that night, nor did I forget. God help me! I was realizing that I never could forget.
At six o'clock I came downstairs, made a pretence at eating some biscuits and cheese which I found on the sideboard, scribbled a brief note to Hephzy stating that I had gone for a walk and should not be back to breakfast, and started out. The walk developed into a long one and I did not return to the rectory until nearly eleven in the forenoon. By that time I was in a better mood, more reconciled to the inevitable—or I thought I was. I believed I could play the man, could even see her married to Herbert Bayliss and still behave like a man. I vowed and revowed it. No one—no one but Hephzy and I should ever know what we knew.
Charlotte, the maid, seemed greatly relieved to see me. She hastened to the drawing-room.
“Here he is, Miss Cahoon,” she said. “He's come back, ma'am. He's here.”
“Of course I'm here, Charlotte,” I said. “You didn't suppose I had run away, did you?... Why—why, Hephzy, what is the matter?”
For Hephzy was coming to meet me, her hands outstretched and on her face an expression which I did not understand—sorrow, agitation—yes, and pity—were in that expression, or so it seemed to me.
“Oh, Hosy!” she cried, “I'm so glad you've come. I wanted you so.”
“Wanted me?” I repeated. “Why, what do you mean? Has anything happened?”
She nodded, solemnly.
“Yes,” she said, “somethin' has happened. Somethin' we might have expected, perhaps, but—but—Hosy, read that.”