"It is so many weeks ago, now—years, it seems. I thought I should have been quite cured by the time winter set in. What in the world drew me so to that one man, when I never felt so much as a passing fancy for other people—for poor Mr. Merritt, for instance. Why couldn't I marry him? He was rich, and I liked him too; so did Osmond and the girls; but somehow it wouldn't do. And yet, now.... I can bear it, mostly, only sometimes, in blindman's holiday, it comes over me. It is galling, it is frightfully humiliating. It ought to make me arise and thrash myself for being so unwomanly. I know for a fact that he doesn't want to see me in the least; for, if he had, he would have come ... and yet—yet—if he were to open that door, and stand there this moment, I should be, for the time, absolutely and entirely happy. Oh, what a fall, what a fall for me. I was so certain and so safe. And now, is this pain to go on always? Am I never to be able to fling my heart into my books as I used? Oh, surely, if I am firm enough, I must be able to stop it. I will! I am determined I will!"
A footfall, running up the front door steps, made her pause, and foolishly hold her breath; then she laughed contemptuously as a latch-key was thrust into the lock. There was a stamping and rubbing of boots on the mat in the hall, sounds of a mackintosh being removed, an umbrella thrust into the stand, and then Jacqueline walked in, her eyes like stars, her cheeks glowing with the stinging cold outside.
"Are you there, Wyn?" she asked, peering into the twilight.
"Yes. Mind the ink," said the authoress, heaving a sigh.
"Why in the world don't you draw the curtains and light the lamp?" asked Jacqueline, coming forward, and unfastening the dark fur round her throat. "Why is there no tea ready? Where's Osmond? Isn't Hilda in yet? What have you been about, eh?"
"Oh, I don't know," said Wyn, stretching, and picking herself and her writing materials up from the floor. "I was writing hard all the morning, and this afternoon was so horrid, I thought I wouldn't go out; so I have been moping rather. Osmond's out. Hilda won't be in for half-an-hour—it's not five yet."
As she spoke, she drew the curtains, lit the lamp, and rang the bell for tea; then, drawing a low chair to the fire, sat down and looked at Jacqueline.
That young lady had removed her out-door apparel, and was kneeling on the hearthrug, holding her hands to the blaze. The severe weather had brought a magnificent glow to her face, and she looked excessively pretty and elegant. Wyn watched her with elder-sisterly pride. There was something evidently well-bred about Jac; something in the brilliant eyes, the tempting smile, the tall slender figure which gave her a style of her own. It was not exactly dashing, but it was something peculiar to herself, which made her noticed wherever she went, the undeniable beauty of the academy schools, and the pride of her devoted family.
Something had pleased her to-day. Wyn easily divined this, from the gleam in the big, laughing, hazel eyes, and the pleasant curves of the pretty mouth. But the eldest sister was too diplomatic to ask any questions. She knew that, when the slim hands were warmed, confidence would begin to flow, so she only sat still, and remarked casually.
"Bad light down at the schools to-day, I should think."