“You look—as if you had been very late overnight, Eddy.”
“Oh, I acknowledge I was; who denies it?” said Eddy, with again an attempt at a laugh. “It’s the nature of the beast: one minds one’s manners, at a place like Rosmore; but in town one can’t help one’s self, not even when town’s out of town, and it’s only the debris that are left.”
“You would have done better to stay at Rosmore,” she said gently; “you do not look the same person.”
“I am not the same person. Who would not be better there?” he said. And here he burst into an uneasy laugh. “You have not come at this hour in the morning, and dragged an unlucky wretch out of bed, only that we should exchange compliments about Rosmore?”
“No, indeed. I have a little history to give you, Eddy, and an appeal to make. You know, or you divined, I cannot tell which, something of what happened before you left?”
“The night of the ball?—oh I divined: that is to say, I saw. A man does not arrive in hot haste at nearly midnight, when a ball is going on, and demand the master of the house; and the master of the house does not send in equal haste for his son, who is closeted with him for a long time, then comes out looking conscious and distracted, and finally disappears, without the instructed spectator forming an idea that something must have happened. I am a very instructed spectator, Mrs. Rowland. I have seen various things of the kind. The sons have disappeared for shorter or longer times, and the fathers have remained masters of the field. Here, Rogers, put it on this little table, and take away those things to eat. I want nothing but some tea.”
There was a moment’s pause, during which the little table was covered with a shining white polished cloth, which reflected the fire in a surface made semi-transparent by starch and borax and a glittering silver tea-pot placed upon it; which made a still warmer reflection in the foggy yellow of the morning air. Eddy poured himself out his tea with his usual air of easy composure, a little overdone. But this Mrs. Rowland was not herself of a sufficiently easy mind to see.
“Eddy,” she said, “I have been told—I don’t know how to say it to you.” It had never till this moment occurred to her how difficult it would be to say, nor did she even know what she meant to imply, or how he could be connected with the matter. “I have been told,” she repeated rather breathlessly, “that you, perhaps, might know something of—that in the dreadful position of affairs I might ask—you—”
“Ask me—what?” he said with a smile. The corners of his mouth trembled a little. He spilt the cream which he was pouring into his tea, but she did not observe these incidents, and indeed what could they have had to do with the question—but it was no question—which she asked? “Of course, if I can tell you anything, Mrs. Rowland, or throw any light—But tell me first. Ask me—what?”
She gazed at him a moment, and then poor Evelyn acknowledged her own impotence by a sudden burst of tears. “I have come down from Scotland,” she said, “without my husband’s knowledge. I have wandered to and fro—this is now the third day—trying to see you, Eddy. I am worn out, and my nerves have gone all wrong. I can’t be sure of the step I am taking, if I am mistaken or not. The only thing I can do is to ask you simply—do you know anything about it? I don’t know what. I have nothing clear in my head, only a sort of despair of making anything of it, ever. I was told that you might know something—that you might help me. If you can, for God’s sake do it Eddy! I will be grateful to you all my life.”