"I am quite sure;" replied Maud briefly, and no more was said.
It was the evening of the third day, and darkness was falling outside. Leo, who had been waiting for this, had stolen outside, permitted, even urged thereto, by Sue, touched and consoled by what she took for a reflex of her own grief upon her young sister's face—and she had got some way from the house, when, in the deepening shadows beyond, she saw Paul coming.
Her first impulse was as usual to fly, but a second brought her swiftly to his side. She must see, must hear, must know at once—a maddening curiosity prevailed over every other feeling.
And it was immediately, if superficially met. He was eager to explain—while looking back on it she could not see that he had explained anything. He had received no communication, he had heard no tidings till the same day at noon, and had started by the first train, which he had barely had time to catch.
So far all was clear, but the how or the why was left untouched,—and he was hurriedly asking her to speak, begging for information, ejaculating expressions of sympathy, and reiterating regrets all the way back to the house, as if he found it impossible to take in all the sad details, for she was asked the same questions over and over again.
It was not till Leo was alone that she had a moment wherein to ask herself—Was she glad—was she sorry—was she relieved or bitterly disappointed that there was no trace of that mystery secretly conjured up during the past dreadful days? She had pondered, and fancied—oh, how cruel she had been, forever dwelling on the possibility that she might never need to see Paul Foster again;—yet now the joy of it—the pain of it—the bliss of it—the misery of it,—every throb of her veins was at once ecstasy and torture.
Paul was here—to be avoided; he must be met—and shunned; his voice would soothe—and stab; his touch would heal—and burn.
How had she ever borne the blank without him? The dreary vacuum which nothing could fill? The hopelessness, the emptiness of it all?
He was here, but looking ill—thinner than before—with a drawn, haggard countenance, and restless eyes. She could not but say to herself that even a kind heart, suffering for the sufferings of others, hardly accounted for such manifestations of grief. It was not to be supposed that General Boldero had during a few weeks' acquaintance so endeared himself to his future son-in-law that his death, however sudden and unexpected, was more than a shock. Leonore was tolerably sure that if her father had not been also Maud's father, he would not even have been acceptable to Paul as a friend. He could not be; the two were dissimilar throughout,—even Valentine Purcell, less intelligent than other people, had discovered as much.
Yet in four days—for it was but four days since the departing traveller had been gaily ushered forth from the doorstep on which he now stood, he had changed so visibly that—Where had he been during those four days? she found herself asking of herself anew.