George did not speak at all during our journey up to town, but my father was quite chatty and confidential with me. He even confided some fears, much to my surprise, which he entertained with regard to my dear mother’s health.
“Your mother ought never to spend her winters in England,” he said. “She has always been fragile; she grows more fragile every year; she ought to winter abroad—in the Riviera, or some other dry and sheltered place.”
He spoke quite kindly, with real anxiety in his voice. I never loved him so well. We parted the best of friends at Paddington, and I went off to Mr Gray’s office, secured my bag of keys, and before ten o’clock that day found myself once again in Cousin Geoffrey’s house, with many long hours before me to spend as I thought fit. I went up to the octagon room, and spent the whole of that long day arranging and sorting those dreary bundles of keys. I had made up my mind that I would not commence my task of examination until each key fitted each lock. I was firmly convinced that if I did not use method I should effect nothing. I was aware that the task before me was one of great difficulty. I would not add to it by any irregularity with regard to my method of search. Methodical work is always more or less successful, and as the day wore on I fitted key after key into the locks they were meant to open. My spirits rose as my work proceeded, and I felt almost sure that I might commence my search in good earnest to-morrow.
The light was beginning to fade, and I was thinking of putting my nicely-sorted keys away and retiring from my hard day’s work, when I heard steps on the deserted stairs, the murmur of voices—several voices, one of them high and sweet, the others low and deep in tone, evidently proceeding from men’s throats.
The sounds approached nearer and nearer, and a moment afterwards the door of the octagon room was opened, and Drake, accompanied by three people, entered. In this dark room, which, with all its beauty, never admitted the uninterrupted light of day, it was difficult for me at first to recognise the people who so suddenly invaded my solitude. But the clear, high voice was familiar, and when an eager figure ran across the room, and two hands clasped mine, and a fervent kiss was implanted on my somewhat dusty forehead, I did not need to look again to be quite sure that Lady Ursula Redmayne stood before me.
“Here I am, Rosamund. Whether welcome or not, I am here once more. Ursula, the impetuous, comes to visit Rosamund, the mysterious. Now, my dear, what are you doing? and have you no word of greeting for me, your real friend, and for your cousin, for he is your cousin, Rupert Valentine? Have you no word of affectionate greeting, Rosamund?”
I stammered and blushed. I was not very glad to see Lady Ursula Redmayne. At this moment her presence confused me. I avoided looking at Captain Valentine, and wondered quickly what he must think of my present very remarkable occupation.
“How do you do?” I said, not returning her kiss, but trying hard to seem pleased; “how do you do, Captain Valentine? I won’t shake hands with you because my hands are very, very dirty.”
“And why are they dirty, Rose?” asked Lady Ursula, her merry eyes twinkling. “A lady should never have dirty hands. Oh, fie! Rose; I am shocked at you. I will only forgive you on one condition—that you tell me what you are doing here.”
“Nothing wrong,” I replied; “but Mr Gray knows. You had better ask Mr Gray.”