“And if he comes when Mr. Craig and the publisher are here talking business with Dad, I’ll manage to take him off and entertain him in another room,” she said to herself. “For of course if the great ‘Book’ is to be discussed, nothing must be allowed to interfere!”
She smiled, and hummed a little tune under her breath as she went back from the garden into the house and set her roses in a crystal vase, which so enhanced their beauty that they seemed to cheer up and look almost as fair as they were accustomed to do in summer. And the hours swept on glidingly till a flare of deep scarlet and gold in the west spread itself out in all the glory of a November sunset. The glow of a big log fire shed bright reflections all over the charming drawing-room of the Manor house, sparkling on the daintily set out tea-table with its polished silver and delicate china, and the Sentimentalist surveyed her preparations with pardonable pride.
“I do love pretty things!” she said, inwardly. “And luxurious things too! The Philosopher would say there is no necessity for either beauty or comfort,—but I know no one who loves the good ‘tastes’ of life more than he does! He always chooses the easiest chair to sit in,—ah, that reminds me!” And she forthwith began to place the chairs in the most comfortable and friendly positions near the tea-table. “Now they can talk without straining themselves!” and she smiled. “Dad and Mr. Craig and the publisher! I’ll be out of it—for of course as soon as I’ve poured out tea I’ll leave them together. Women are never wanted in ‘business’ by the men—and yet I think they often manage better than the men when they get a chance!”
Just then a bell rang, sending a deep musical echo through the house.
“There they are!” she said. “I’ll run upstairs just to see if my hair looks tidy!”
This was always her little excuse for taking a peep at herself in the mirror before presenting an appearance to visitors. As a matter of fact her hair was seldom actually “tidy,” being of too wilful, curly and “fluffy” a disposition. It rambled all over her head in fair bright tendrils of warm brown-gold, and curled knowingly and becomingly on the nape of her neck like feathery flecks of sunshine. The polished smoothness of the modern “transformation” peruke was nowhere in evidence. Still, it was just as well to have a glance in the looking-glass as not,—and she was not altogether dissatisfied with the reflection of herself as she saw it. She put a light hairpin or two in a rebellious tress that strayed too freely over her forehead, and then hastened downstairs, wondering why the parlourmaid had not announced the arrival of visitors. Entering the drawing-room now lit only by the sparkle of the fire and the red glow of the sunset, she saw a man standing with his back towards her,—one man,—not the Philosopher—not her “Dad”—just one man. Was it the publisher? She stopped short, with a curious hesitation,—her heart beat quickly—then she heard a muffled voice speaking—
“Don’t be frightened!—now don’t! It’s only me!”
“Jack!!” she cried, and rushed forward, almost falling as the “one man” turned round and caught her in his arms.
“Jack!!” she exclaimed, sobbingly again. “Oh, Jack! Is it really, really you?”
There was no audible answer. But the silence was more eloquent than speech,—the silence of that intense joy which only too seldom lifts poor humanity above its daily care and weariness and moves it to thank God for the dear possession of love.