She kept to her resolution of living on in the little house in Park-Lane. She led a busy life, interesting herself a good deal in the anxieties and cares of others. When a woman takes up that rôle she always finds abundance to do, for there are few pairs of shoulders that have not a burden to carry. She also wrote by every mail to her husband. She had already received one letter from him, posted at Teneriffe. This letter was affectionate—cheerful. Valentine read it over and over. It was a very nice letter, but its words did not reach down into her heart as that other letter of Gerald's, written before he sailed, had done. She was puzzled by it. Still she owned to herself that it was just the letter she ought to receive, just the pleasant happy words of a man who was leading a busy and useful life; who was going away for a definite object, and hoped soon to return to his wife and his home.
All went well with Valentine until a certain day. She rose as usual on the morning of that day, went down to breakfast, opened one or two letters, attended to a couple of domestic matters, and went slowly back to the drawing-room. She liked to dust and tidy her little drawing-room herself. She had put it in order this morning, had arranged fresh flowers in the vases, and was finally giving one or two fresh touches to Gerald's violin, which she always kept near her own piano, when she was startled by the consciousness that she was not alone.
She raised her head, turned quickly, a cold air seemed to blow on her face.
"Valentine!" said her husbands voice, in a tone of unspeakable agony.
She fancied she even saw his shadowy outline. She stretched out her arms to him—he faded away.
That afternoon Mrs. Wyndham paid her father a visit in the City. She was shown into his private room by Helps, who eyed her from head to foot with great anxiety.
Mr. Paget looked into her face and grew perceptibly paler. He was certainly nervous in these days—nervous, and very much aged in appearance.
"Is anything wrong, Valentine?" he could not help saying to his daughter. It was the last sentence he wished to pass his lips—he bit them with vexation after the words had escaped them.