"Yet even she sees," cried Leo, inwardly, "she sees something, though she does not know, does not guess what it is. And I who do, oh, how shall I bear it,—how shall I bear it? And this is only the beginning—they haven't yet actually begun the real thing,—they are only looking at it, and he——?" She heard Sue's voice calling her, and thrust aside the "he".
Sue wanted a parcel taken to the cottage of an under-gardener, who was ill; and thought that both Henry and his wife would appreciate the attention more if conveyed by one of themselves, than by a servant. Would Leo go?
"And ask if Dr. Craig has been, and what he says?" further directed Miss Boldero with a little sigh. She was thinking that perhaps this was the last she would ever have to do with either doctor or patient, and Sue had loved much the gentle routine of her daily life, with its easy benefactions and ministrations,—and now all her world, all the world of which she knew anything, lay in ruins around her.
"I'll go," said Leo, taking the parcel.
She was ready to go anywhere, and Henry's cottage was only a short way off, one of a cluster at the edge of the lower garden,—so that even if the rain which threatened did come on, she could find shelter—and on this occasion safe shelter. Paul had gone for a ride, and his rides were long; Maud explained that the exercise was good for him.
But though thus secure, there was another danger to which no thought had been given, and Leo, whose path at this time seemed beset with pitfalls, on emerging from one cottage room, found herself face to face with a visitor issuing from the other. Dr. Craig had not been able to come himself, but had sent his assistant.
The doctor had paused to rub his chin before doing so, but the summons which stayed his own steps was imperative, and it was a hundred chances to one against Tommy's meeting anybody. The Boldero ladies had been very little about of late, and one of them had already visited the sick man that day. He took the risk.
But he would not have taken it if he had guessed how great the risk was; nor perhaps would young Andrews have gone, had he fore-seen the effect upon himself of that beautiful, mournful, childish face, whose expression?—A cry escaped him. A mad interpretation of it possessed him. His promise? He threw his promise to the winds. No man could keep a promise when confronted with—even to himself he did not say with what,—but before Leonore could escape, or prevent it, the pent-up torrent was loosed.
At first she was petrified,—then flared up. What was the meaning of this? What was she to think? Was Mr. Andrews beside himself? Did he know what he was saying?
Still he poured forth, deaf and blind. Oh, how he had longed for this moment!—the thought of it, the hope of it, had kept him alive through all the wretched, wretched months of separation,—and she, how had she endured—?