“I will tell you as much as I know,” he said, with a pause and visible effort of self-restraint. “She was travelling by unusual routes, but without any mystery. She had a maid with her, a tall, thin, anxious woman.”
“Oh, Jane!” cried Rosalind, clasping her hands together with a little cry of recognition and pleasure; this seemed to give such reality to the tale. She knew very well that the faithful maid had gone with Mrs. Trevanion; but to see her in this picture gave comfort to her heart.
“You knew her? She seemed to be very anxious about her mistress, very careful of her. Miss Trevanion, it may very well be that in my wanderings I may meet with them again. Shall I say anything? Shall I carry a message?”
Rosalind found her voice choked with tears. She made him a sign of assent, unable to do more.
“What shall I tell her? That you trust me—that I am a messenger from you? I would rather be your ambassador than the queen’s. Shall I say that I have been so happy as to gain your confidence—or even perhaps—”
“Oh, a little thing will do,” cried the girl; “she will understand you as soon as you say that Rosalind—”
He was leaning forward, his eyes fixed upon hers, his face full of emotion. He put out his hand and touched hers, which was leaning on the table. “Yes,” he said, “I will say that Rosalind—so long as you give me an excuse for using that name.”
Rosalind came to herself with a little shock. She withdrew her hand hastily. “Perhaps I am saying too much,” she said. “It is only a dream, and you may never see her. But I could not bear that you should imagine we did not speak of her, or that I did not love her, and trust her,” she added, drawing a long breath. “This is a great deal too much about me, and you had begun to tell me of your own arrangements,” Rosalind said, drawing her chair aside a little in instinctive alarm. It was the sound she made in doing so which called the attention of John Trevanion—or, rather, which moved him to turn his steps that way, his attention having been already attracted by the fixed and jealous gaze of Roland, who had sat with his face towards the group by the writing-table ever since his rival had followed Rosalind there.
Rivers saw that his chance was over, with a sigh, yet not perhaps with all the vehement disappointment of a youth. He had made a beginning, and perhaps he was not yet ready to go any further, though his feelings might have hurried him on too hastily, injudiciously, had no interruption occurred. But he had half frightened without displeasing her, which, as he was an experienced man, was a condition of things he did not think undesirable. There is a kind of fright which, to be plunged into yet escape from, to understand without being forced to come to any conclusion, suits the high, fantastical character of a young maiden’s awakening feelings. And then before he, who was of a race so different, could actually venture to ask a Miss Trevanion of Highcourt to marry him, a great many calculations and arrangements were necessary. He thought John Trevanion, who was a man of the world, looked at him with a certain surprise and disapproval, asking himself, perhaps, what such a man could have to offer, what settlements he could make, what establishment he could keep up.
“Are not you cold in this corner,” John said, “so far from the fire, Rosalind?—and you are a chilly creature. Run away and get yourself warm.” He took her chair as she rose, and sat down with an evident intention of continuing the conversation. As a matter of fact, John Trevanion was not asking himself what settlements a newspaper correspondent could make. He was thinking of other things. He gave a nod of his head towards the portrait, and said in a low tone, “She has been talking to you of her.”