And yet his flattering hopes of gaining a permanent rank returned to affright him in planning such a bold deed. “Ah! I must get some trusty fellow—perhaps, in London,” he muttered as his head dropped, and the train bore him on to the halls of learning, where poor Justine was now weeping on her sister’s bosom, and unveiling all the secrets of a hungry heart to the sympathetic Euphrosyne.
But, saddest of all the coterie who had trodden the tessellated floors of the marble house at Delhi, was a lonely girl sobbing herself to sleep, that very night, in a gray castellated mansion house perched upon a sunny cliff of Jersey.
The fair gardens and splendid halls of the luxurious home seemed but the limits of a cheerless prison to the broken-hearted girl who had been astounded when her one friend, Douglas Fraser, the companion of a thirty-five days’ journey, left her without a word. Nadine Johnstone had opened her heart, shyly, to her manly young kinsman, Douglas Fraser. And yet she guarded, as only a maiden’s heart can, the secret of the blossoming love for Hardwicke—the man who had saved her life. She asked her hungry heart if he would follow on her way, led by the appeal of her shining eyes.
Worn, harassed, and wearied out by travel, she had sought a refuge in Justine Delande’s clinging arms, on the night of their arrival from Boulogne, for the path from India had been but a series of shadow-dance glimpses of strange scenes. The ashen face of the tottering old pedant had offered her no welcome to a happy home.
“How hideously like my father, this old bookworm,” murmured the frightened girl in a strange repulsion, as she fled away to her room. It was a grateful relief when the servant maid announced that the travelers would be served in their rooms.
“The Master lives entirely alone,” the girl said shortly. Late that first night the lonely girl sat gazing at the windows rattling under the flying wrack, while Douglas Fraser and his father communed below her until the midnight hour. Suddenly Justine Delande was summoned to join them “on urgent business,” and the heiress of a million sat with clasped hands, murmuring:
“Will he ever find me out here? This is only a cheerless prison. I am, forever, lost to the world.” There was that in Justine Delande’s face on her return which startled the heart-sick wanderer.
“Ask me nothing—nothing to-night. Only sleep, my darling,” murmured the devoted Swiss. The shadows deepened over Nadine Johnstone as she fell asleep dreaming of her mother, the gentle vision, and, the absent lover of her girlish heart.
Sunny gleams came with the dawn, and Nadine was already wandering in the beautiful gardens of “The Banker’s Folly,” as the home perched on the hill was termed. It was there that Douglas Fraser suddenly came upon her, walking with the white-faced Justine. Both women could see that he bore tidings of grave import, and another shadow settled on Nadine’s heart, as she clasped Justine’s hand.
Her cousin’s face was grave as he said, in a broken voice: “I must hasten away instantly to catch the boat, and I have to return immediately to India. There’s no time for a word. My father will tell you all! It is a matter of life and death to our whole family interests. May God keep you, Nadine!” the young man kindly said, as he bent and kissed her hand. “I have tried to make your long journey bearable!” And then, a wrinkled face at a window appeared to end the coming disclosure, for Douglas was softening. A harsh voice rose up in a half shriek: