It seemed as if the girl’s memory, suddenly endowed with a new and subtle power, took her back to that August night in the year ’53, and placed her once more face to face with her father’s enemy. Once more the dark restless eyes, the pale cowering face and moustachioed lip, overshadowed by the slouched hat, flashed upon her for a moment, before the sulky stranger turned away to keep moody silence throughout his companion’s babble. And with that memory of the past was interlinked the face and figure of Launcelot Darrell—so closely that, do what she would, Eleanor Vane could not dissociate the two images.
And she had suffered this man, of all other men, to tell her that he loved her; she had taken a romantic pleasure in his devotion. Day after day, and hour after hour, she had been his companion, sharing his enjoyments, sympathizing with his pursuits, admiring and believing him. This day—this very day—he had held her hand, he had looked in her face; and the words she had spoken to Richard Thornton had proved only a vain boast after all. No instinct in her own breast had revealed to her the presence of her father’s murderer.
Mrs. Darrell looked furtively every now and then at the girl’s face. The iron rigidity of that white face almost startled the widow. Was it the expression of terrible grief restrained by a superhuman effort of will?
“Does this girl love my son, I wonder?” the widow thought; and then the answer, prompted by a mother’s pride, came quickly after the question: “Yes, how could she do otherwise than love him? How could any woman on earth be indifferent to my boy?”
Something almost akin to pity stirred faintly in the heart which was so cold to every creature upon earth except this spoiled and prodigal son; and Mrs. Darrell did her best to comfort the banished girl.
“I am afraid you are ill, my dear Miss Vincent,” the widow said. “The excitement of this sudden departure has been too much for you. Pray, my dear, do not think that I submit to this necessity without very great regret. You have given me perfect satisfaction in everything you have done ever since you entered my house. No praises I can bestow upon you in recommending you to a new home will go beyond the truth. Forgive me! Forgive me, my poor child; I know I must seem very cruel; but I love my son so dearly—I love him so dearly!”
There was real feeling in the tone in which these words were spoken; but the widow’s voice sounded far away to Eleanor Vane, and the words had no meaning. The girl turned her stony face towards the speaker, and made a feeble effort to understand what was said to her; but all power of comprehension seemed lost in the confusion of her brain.
“I want to get back to London,” she said, “I want to get away from this place. Will it be long before the train starts, Mrs. Darrell?”
“Not five minutes. I have put up your money in this envelope, my dear—a quarter’s salary; the quarter began in June, you know, and I have paid you up to September. I have paid for your ticket also, in order that your money might not be broken into by that expense. Your luggage will be sent to you to-morrow. You will get a cab at the station, my dear. Your friends will be very much surprised to see you, no doubt.”
“My friends!” repeated Eleanor, in an absent tone.