“It promised to be long since,” said Greville politely. “Has she acquired more placidity of temper than we used to remark in her?”
“Undoubtedly. Sometimes I have seen the little struggle, for she is naturally impetuous, but it is instantly suppressed. She owes much to your instruction, my dear Greville.”
“You are too partial. Tell me—does she cherish any resentment against me? Be candid. Women are unreasonable, and though it has crowned her happiness and yours, still she may be sore on that point—you understand?”
“Perfectly. But no, not in the least. She speaks of you with just the calm affection I desire. One of her chief pleasures in looking forward was to see you. I believe I express the truth in saying she mourned sincerely over Miss Middleton’s folly and would do all in her power to aid you in any way.”
Of that Greville believed what he pleased, but when he and Sir William proceeded arm in arm to the club he was at least assured that for the present the sword was sheathed.
The truth was, she was in such an Elysium that she thought little of him and was as ready to be cordial to overflowing as she would have been with Sir Harry Fetherstonehaugh or any other reminder of a past which might never have existed as far as she was concerned. Incapable of bearing ill-will to any man, and to few women, she credited all the world with as happy-go-lucky a forgetfulness as her own. Reserve and delicacy were qualities unknown to her except as Attitudes, and they troubled none of her relations with Greville in the new rôle of aunt and nephew.
But Romney! He had seen in the Gazette that Sir William had arrived, but knew not the great tidings as yet not publicly announced. How should he? He had shrunk into his shell more than ever and except for his art the world went its way and left him stranded on the beach. Would she send for him? Come? A little shiver like the turn of the sap in spring in the cold veins of trees seemed to stir feebly about his heart because she was near.
A little tap at his door. It opened very slowly. The white fold of a woman’s dress fluttered in like a butterfly on the breeze from the opened door without. He saw the gleam and swung his chair right about. The door was pushed back, and, framed in the darkness behind, he saw her.
Yes, but he could not move. He could not speak. He stared at her, hollow-eyed. Was it real? So often in dream and waking vision that door had stirred and she had stood, still, smiling, exactly as she stood now, living, with glowing lips and cheeks, sweet, sweet, inexpressibly, and yet had melted away into emptiness and distance as he looked. It would be that and no more this time also. He looked down with a long sigh on his knotted empty hands, and dreaded to be cheated into joy.
She could not bear it a moment longer. Her warm heart overflowed, and quick as a sunbeam she danced along the floor and caught him about the neck, forcing his face upwards.