Sir Charles was very grave and preoccupied, and while he was not exactly cool, yet there was a certain dignity about him which somewhat awed his betrothed. There were some things which he could not understand, in particular, Adrian’s stern words and manner to Mrs. Coolidge, which the more he thought about them the more mysterious and inexplicable they became.
Altogether it was not the happiest company in Christendom that assembled in the Vallingham Hall drawing-room that morning.
Every door that opened made Isabel and her mother quake with fear, and both would gladly have given up every jewel in their possession to have been freed from that horrible suspense.
Several days passed, and still there was no news. Their anxiety began to abate, and with every passing hour they breathed more freely, yet that puzzled, wearing question was ever before them:
“Where is she?”
The drawing-room concert, or musical soirée, came off according to appointment, but did not prove very satisfactory. It was not really a failure, but there was a lack of inspiration which made everything drag, and it was with a uniform sense of relief that at the end of the week the gay company dispersed, while Sir Charles, Lady Randal, Isabel, and her mother departed for Paris, intent upon the all-important trousseau.
The two latter were only too eager to plunge into the pleasures of the gay French metropolis, and busy themselves with the cares which the next few weeks would involve, hoping thus to drive more unpleasant thoughts out of mind.
When Adrian Dredmond recognized his betrothed in the dim light of that dismal morning, he sprang forward with a cry of joy, mingled with dismay, and folded her close within his arms, while Brownie, utterly overcome by the reaction from excessive fright to a sense of security, and that her troubles were all over, burst into nervous sobbing, and clung to him with a grip so fierce that he was startled.
“My darling, my darling, what does all this mean?” he asked, soothingly.