“Yes, rather,” drawled the other with cool effrontery; and knowing he had scotched his man, the doctor turned on his heel, and the two men started off in the direction of the Nuneham station, neither sadder nor wiser, it is to be feared, for the lesson of the night's experience. No sooner had these two unwelcome guests vanished from the precincts of the little cottage than Mrs. Hartley reappeared from some mysterious corner and Martha from another, and preparations were at once put forward for the most inviting breakfast the little house could command. Notwithstanding the wretched company in which they had been found, Mrs. Hartley was confident that her remaining guests were surely “gentlemen;” and as, in addition to this, no one through all the countryside was as widely loved and honored as Dr. Arnold, was not there occasion for elaborate preparation? All this, of course, involved considerable delay, which Chris and the doctor would have gladly foregone; but it gave Harry Allyn a sorely coveted opportunity for an early talk with Mrs. Hartley.
“Is your mistress in the kitchen?” he asked of Martha, who was arranging some sweet peas in a celery glass as a decoration for the table.
“Yes, Mr. Allyn,” very respectfully, for in the mind of the little maid, as in the mind of all the others, there was the conviction that this Mr. Allyn had very little in common with the company in which he had been found. “Shall I call her for you?” she added.
“Would there be any harm in my going in there?” as though he were entreating a favor of a queen.
“Not a bit in the world, Mr. Allyn;” and thus reassured Harry at once made his way into the sunny and spotless little kitchen.
Mrs. Hartley was so preoccupied in giving the final stirring to a golden mixture in a great yellow bowl that she did not hear Harry as he came toward her, and so gave a little start when he spoke.
“Martha told me it would be all right,” he explained.
“Oh, yes, certainly,” quickly recovering herself, “you'll excuse me if I go right on.”
“You never can know, Mrs. Hartley,” he said, taking his stand at the end of the table, and leaning a little wearily against the wall at his back, “how mortified I am about what has happened, and how sorry that we should have put you to all this trouble; and the bother of it is, Mrs. Hartley, it isn't over yet. The doctor says Ted will not be able to get about for two or three weeks at least. Do you think”—a world of entreaty in his voice—“you can ever manage to keep him as long as that?”
“Yes—I think—I can,” but very slowly and thoughtfully, as though half afraid of promising more than she could perform.