He did not see a young face, half screened by the climbing rose branches at the window directly overhead, nor did he, therefore, know that the young person under discussion—Jess herself—had heard every word of the conversation.
Jess had drawn hastily back, her face as red as the great, dewy roses that nodded to her from outside the window.
From the first moment her eyes had met those of the handsome stranger at the gate, the old life had seemed to fall suddenly from her. She had said to herself: “Surely, this is the hero of my daydreams; the face, come to life, of the Romeo whom Juliet loved, whose picture hangs on the walls of Blackheath Hall, and like the boyish face, too, of John Dinsmore, when he was a little lad, and came there to visit; and like the bust of Apollo, too; and the knight’s pictures in the old books.” And he did not think her fair: probably, on the contrary, he considered her homely; he had said as much, and tears of wounded pride welled up to the girl’s eyes. She never realized until that moment that she had so much vanity to hurt.
CHAPTER XXI.
HOW EASILY THINGS GO WRONG.
For the first time in her young life, Jess lies awake through all the long, dark, cool hours of the night. As a rule, her senses droop swiftly into the lands of dreams quite as soon as her dark, curly head touches the pillow. To-night the sweet boon of sleep is denied her for the first time.
She believes it is the great event of the journey which has unsettled her, for it is the first time in her young life, that she can remember, that she has been away from Blackheath Hall. Then she drifts into thinking of the handsome stranger whom she met at the gate, and still thinking of him, the long hours wear away at last, and morning breaks.
It is a hardship for Jess to lie in bed after the pink dawn has ushered in a glorious day, and, creeping silently out of her white nest, in which Lucy is still sleeping soundly, she is soon dressed and out of the house, exploring the grounds.
There is another one beneath that roof who is an early riser, and that one Mr. Moore, as he has permitted himself to be called.
Looking out from his window, in the dewy light of the early morning, he is amazed to see the lithe, slim figure of Jess gliding like a fairy vision among the great rosebuds of the old-fashioned garden.
And, furthermore, he is still more amazed to see her running over the diamond-incrusted grass bare of foot, swinging her shoes and stockings in her right hand as she hurries along.