I thought I read all this in her eyes, which scanned me so curiously, while she tried to be agreeable and said she was glad to see me; that she had been coming to call upon me for a long time, but really her time was not her own, and she wished I would come to see her with Mrs. Trevyllan, “who, naughty girl, owes me a party call,” she added, playfully, and shaking her finger at the “naughty girl,” she made a movement to pass on.
Tom said very little, and I felt he was glad when the interview was over, and I was being trundled along the road further and further from him and his fiancee. She was that, I almost knew, and when three weeks later, he told me of a place on Finchley Road, Hampstead, which was for sale, and which he meant to buy, I was sure of it, and asked him when it was to be.
“The wedding, you mean?” and he looked so quizzically at me. “I’d like it as soon as the middle of June. How do you suppose that would suit her?”
I thought he could ascertain that better by asking her rather than me, and I told him so a little pettishly, I am afraid, though he did not seem the least bit ruffled, but held me high in his arms just as he did the night he came from India, and said: “Mousey must manage to get back some color in her cheeks, for I want her to look her best at the wedding.”
Secretly I hoped I’d be sick and unable to go, but I did not say so, and when, a few days later, he came and told me he had bought Rose Park, and wished me to drive out with him and see it, I did not object, but put on my hat and shawl with a feeling as if I were about to visit a grave, instead of the charming spot which Rose Park proved to be. The house stood in an inclosure of two acres, and we went through the grounds first, admiring the beautiful flowers and shrubs, the velvety grass, the statuary gleaming so white through the distant trees, the rustic seats and gravel walks, and pretty little fountain which sent up such tiny jets of water near the front door. How delightful it all was; just a bit of country in the busy city, from which it was shut out by a high stone wall, over which the English ivy was rioting so luxuriantly. And yet in my heart there was an ache as I thought how very, very seldom I should ever go there, and in imagination saw Miss Elliston’s tall, graceful figure, wandering about the shaded walks with Tom, or sitting down to rest in the rose-covered arbor, just as he and I were doing, he asking me innumerable questions about the place, how I liked it, and if I thought his wife would be suited with it.
“Suited!” I cried. “She ought, for I think it a little Paradise. I did not know there was such a pretty place in London, city and country all in one.”
“Well, then, Mousey,” he said, “if you like the grounds so much, let us go inside and see what you think of the house, and what, if any, changes you would suggest.”
The inside of the house took my breath away, it was so handsome, and yet so cozy and home-like, as if made to live and be happy in. There was nothing stiff about it, nothing too grand to be used every day, and yet it was elegant and rich, and I felt like one in a dream as Tom led me through room after room, some with low windows and balconies, others opening into little conservatories, and all so charming that I could not tell which I liked the best.
“Has Miss Elliston been here? Has she seen it?” I asked, and Tom replied: “Not yet. I wished to bring you here first and see if there was any alteration you could suggest.”
“I!” and I looked quickly up at him. “She would not think much of my taste, I fancy. Neither do I think she will care to have a thing changed, it is all so charming, especially her room.”