Dorothy did not see Ralph again for nearly a month, and the hope that had animated her for a brief period threatened to go out in darkness. Her father, much to her surprise, remained at the Manor, he and the dowager having come to terms that appeared to be mutually satisfactory. But for what purpose he had returned to St. Goram, and why he remained, she did not know, and more puzzling still was why he had held that long and friendly interview with Ralph Penlogan.
More than once she had tried to get at the truth. But her father was completely on his guard against every chance question. He had never been in the habit of taking Dorothy into his confidence in business matters. He was of opinion that the less girls knew about matters outside the domestic realm the better. Moreover, until he was safely out of the clutches of the money-lenders, it would not be safe to take anyone into his confidence. So to Dorothy, at any rate, he remained a mystery from day to day, and the longer he remained, the deeper the mystery seemed to grow.
There was, however, one compensation. He was more cheerful and more affectionate than he had ever been since her refusal to marry Lord Probus. What that might mean she was unable to guess. There appeared to be no particular reason for his cheerfulness. For the moment he was living on charity, for of course he could not dream of paying the dowager for his board and lodgings. He did not appear to be engaged on any gambling adventure or business enterprise. No one came to see him. He went nowhere, except for an occasional long walk after dark, and he scarcely ever received a letter.
One evening he was absent several hours, and did not return till after midnight. Dorothy waited up for him, and had begun to be greatly concerned at his non-arrival. She was standing at the open door listening when she caught the sound of his footsteps, and she ran a little way down the drive to meet him.
"Oh, father, wherever have you been?" she cried out anxiously.
"Why, little girl, why are you not in bed?" he answered, with a laugh.
"Because I waited up for you, and I expected you an hour ago. I have been terribly anxious."
"Nobody is likely to run away with me," he said, bending over and kissing her.
"But it is so late for you to be out alone. If there was anyone you have been in the habit of visiting, I should not have worried, but I feared you had been taken ill, or had met with an accident."
"I did not know you cared for your old father so much," he said, with a note of tenderness in his voice that was new to her.