She makes no rejoinder, but, slipping from his side out into the wild wintry rain, flies across the park away from him.
"Esther!—Esther!" he calls after her: but the "drip, drip" of the great swollen rain-drops from the eaves of the deer-barn is his only answer.
[CHAPTER XLI.]
The rain ceases, and St. John endeavours to work off his disappointment and rage in a very long walk. When he at length re-enters the house, the two old people are hobbling into luncheon, and Miss Blessington sweeping, slowly and alone, after them. Her face is serene, and, to his surprise, wears no bellicose expression towards himself. To tell the truth, during three hours of point-lace work, the Gerard diamonds have kept flashing and gleaming, restless-bright, before her mind's eye. She has been telling herself that she was over-hasty in the relinquishment of them—has been resolving to make one effort, if consistent with dignity, for their recapture.
"Does Miss Craven know that luncheon is ready?" asks St. John of the butler, when they have all been seated for some minutes.
"If you please, sir, I don't think that Miss Craven is coming to lunch."
"Why not?—is she ill?" he inquires, anxiously, perfectly indifferent as to whether his anxiety is remarked or no.
"I believe she is rather poorly, sir."