“Yes, Richard, I think and believe this; and you must help me to find out whether I am right or wrong.”
The scene-painter sighed. He had hoped that his beautiful adopted sister had long since abandoned or forgotten her utopian scheme of vengeance in the congenial society of a gay-hearted girl of her own age. And behold, here she was, vindictive, resolute, as upon that Sunday evening, a year and a half ago, on which they had walked together in those dingy London streets.
Eleanor Vane interpreted her companion’s sigh.
“Remember your promise, Richard.” she said. “You promised to serve me, and you must do so—you will do so, won’t you, Dick?”
The avenging fury had transformed herself into a siren as she spoke, and looked archly up at her companion’s face, with her head on one side, and a soft light in her grey eyes.
“You won’t refuse to serve me, will you, Richard?”
“Refuse!” cried the young man. “Oh! Nelly, Nelly, you know very well there is nothing in the world I could refuse you.”
Miss Vane accepted this assurance with great composure. She had never been able to dissociate Richard Thornton with those early days in which she had accompanied him to Covent Garden to buy mulberry leaves for his silkworms, and had learned to play “God save the Queen” upon the young musician’s violin. Nothing was farther from her thoughts than the idea that poor Dick’s feelings could have undergone any change since those childish days in the King’s Road, Chelsea.
The letter which Eleanor so feverishly awaited from Laura Mason came by return of post. The young lady’s epistle was very long, and rather rambling in its nature. Three sheets of note-paper were covered with Miss Mason’s lamentations for her Eleanor’s absence, reproachful complainings against her cruelty, and repeated entreaties that she would come back to Hazlewood.
George Vane’s daughter did not linger over this feminine missive. A few days ago she would have been touched by Laura’s innocent expressions of regard; now her eyes hurried along the lines, taking little note of all those simple words of affection and regret, and looking greedily forward to that one only passage in the letter which was likely to have any interest for her.