And so one morning as Mr. Huntingdon was sitting by the open window watching the children play in the May sunshine and wondering why his daughter had not been to wish him good-morning, Nea had stolen out of her father’s house, and was hurrying through the sunny square and green, deserted park until she found Maurice waiting for her, who silently took her hand, and put her into the carriage.
Nea said afterward that it was that silent greeting of Maurice’s, and his cold touch, that first brought a doubt to her mind; during the long drive he spoke little to her—only held her hand tightly; and when at last they stood together in the dark old church with its gloomy altar and white, gleaming monuments, the poor child gave a shiver that was almost fear, and suddenly burst into tears. It had come upon her all at once what she was doing, and why she was there; but already it was too late, for while she was clinging to Maurice with low, frightened sobs, the curate had hurried from the vestry and had entered within the rails, and the pew-opener was beckoning them to take their places.
Too late! too late! Ten minutes more and the knot was tied that no hand could loosen, and Nea Huntingdon had become Nea Trafford.
* * * * * *
But when they had left the gloomy old church in the distance, and were driving through the crowded streets with their babel of voices, Nea’s courage and spirits revived; and presently she was tripping about Maurice’s shabby rooms, re-arranging the bowls of jonquils and lilac, with which the landlady had made some show of festivity, unlooping the stiff folds of the muslin curtains, and peeping into the corner cupboards with the gleeful curiosity of a child, until, at her young husband’s gentle remonstrance, her seriousness returned, and she sat down to write the formidable letter.
And how formidable it was Nea never imagined until she had tried and failed, and then tried again till she sighed for very weariness; and then Maurice came to her aid with a few forcible sentences; and so it got itself written—the saddest, most penitent little letter that a daughter’s hand could frame.
But when she had laid down the burden of her secret, and the special messenger had been dispatched to Belgrave House, Nea put off thought for awhile, and she sat by the window and chatted to Maurice about the gay doings they would have at Pau, and Maurice listened to her; but always there was that sad, incredulous smile on his face.
And so the day wore on, but when they had finished their simple dinner and the afternoon had waned into evening, Nea grew strangely quiet and Maurice’s face grew graver and graver as they sat with clasped hands in the twilight, with a barrier of silence growing up between them.
And when the dusk became darkness, and the lamp was brought in Nea looked at Maurice with wide anxious eyes and asked what it meant.
Were they not going to send the carriage for them after all? she wondered; must she go home on foot and brave her father’s anger? he must be so very, very angry, she thought, to keep them so long in suspense.