That the incident should lead to any other result in no wise occurred to her.
It was on the Thursday morning of the second week of her stay with the Allens that she received this letter. The day but one following—the Saturday—was to bring Geoffrey. Friday passed without any tidings of him; the first day he had missed writing. She felt a little uneasy. Still more so when Saturday morning brought no letter. But Mrs. Allen persuaded her that as he was coming that day he would not have thought it necessary to write; might, not improbably, have been detained late at business the previous evening in preparation for the Saturday’s holiday.
Marion felt but half satisfied, but tried to think it was all right. To kill time till the hour at which Mr. Allen promised to escort her to the station to meet her husband, she went a long walk with the two boys. She did her best to be cheerful; they hunted for shells, they built sand fortresses for the waves to undermine, they ran races on the shore; but for all that her heart was heavy with unacknowledged misgiving. At last they turned towards home. A few paces from their own door they met Mr. Allen hastening towards them.
“You must have been quite a long walk,” he said, speaking, it seemed to Marion, rather faster than usual. “I have been some distance in the other direction looking for you. What a lovely day it is!” he went on, hurriedly. “Just the day for the sea-side. Mr. Baldwin would have enjoyed it so much. Such a pity he can’t come.”
“Can’t come,” repeated Marion in astonishment. “He is coming, Mr. Allen. I had no letter this morning, and he would have been sure to write had anything prevented his coming.”
She glanced at Mr. Allen’s face; he did not speak, but she read something in his expression which caused her heart for an instant to stand still, and then again to beat with almost suffocating rapidity.
“Mr. Allen,” she exclaimed, wildly, “you are playing with me. It is nonsense. I see it all in your face. You have had some dreadful news while I was out. You have had a letter saying that——. Good God, tell me the worst. Give me the letter, if you won’t speak.”
“Not a letter,” stammered Mr. Allen, his rosy face suffused with perspiration drawn forth by his very unsuccessful attempt at “breaking it gently to the poor thing.” “Not a letter. A telegram from Mr. Baxter, and, and—— yes, you shall see it,” he went on, fumbling in his pocket for the large thin envelope, with the fatal “immediate” in the corner; “for I Heaven’s sake, don’t excite your-self so, my dear young lady. Think of the poor baby.” (He was a family man, you see, and none of the little Allens had been brought up “by hand.”) “After all, it may not be so bad as you think.”
She seized the envelope, tore out the paper it enclosed, and devoured the words with hungry eyes.
From Robert Baxter, Esq., Millington, to “Henry Allen, Esq., Sandbeach.” (Thus ran the telegram.)
“Not seen Baldwin two days. Sent to enquire. Find him very ill. Better send his wife at once.”