And Cooper Silwood hesitated, then obeyed. When he was gone out of the room, Eversleigh sat staring, staring at the door.
It seemed to him incredible, impossible, that a few brief minutes could work such havoc, such disaster, such irremediable ruin. Only a short time before, that fine young man, that handsome and debonair son of his, of whom he was so proud, had stood in this room, and had gone away smiling and hopeful; and now——
Eversleigh felt like one in a nightmare falling through immeasurable depths.
CHAPTER III
That afternoon Gilbert Eversleigh went over, as he had intended, to Ivydene, his father's residence in Surbiton, a large and commodious villa standing among trees and shrubs in its own grounds on the road from Kingston to Thames Ditton, about three-quarters of a mile from the market-place of the former. From its upper windows there were to be got pleasant glimpses of the river and of the Home Park beyond. The Eversleighs were very fond of their house, and, in an unassertive way, proud of it. Certainly it was the centre of as sweet and well-ordered a home-life as any in England.
Gilbert's telegram to his mother had prepared her for his coming, and when he arrived he was warmly greeted by her and his sister Helen, a fair girl with the family good-looks, who inquired if he was going to spend the rest of the day with them. Gilbert replied that he did not purpose returning to town till the last train, and suggested it would be "very nice on the river."
While he was speaking, Miss Kitty Thornton made her appearance, and as she shook hands with him his eyes sparkled with admiration—and small wonder!
For Miss Kitty was a splendid piece of flesh and blood, full of life and the joy and the spirit of youth. A little over twenty-one, she was old enough to be a woman and young enough to be a girl. She was not too tall nor too slim. She belonged to the dark type. She had black hair and plenty of it, and big black expressive eyes which often spoke her thoughts when her tongue was silent; on each cheek glowed a spot of bright colour as large as a half-opened wild rose, but of a deeper shade; her lips were of a deeper shade still; her skin was of a warm dusky tint.
It was a strikingly brilliant face, but it had a delicacy of feature, a fineness of line not common in dark women. When it was in repose it was beautiful, yet somehow it hinted sorrow, melancholy, unhappy love, tragedy; but it was seldom in repose, and when it was lit up with animation, with feeling or laughter, as it usually was, it was as radiantly lovely as mortal man could wish to see.