“Who knows—it may be for the last time!” he said. “There has not been so much of tenderness or beauty in my life, that I can afford to throw it churlishly aside, when it is given so freely to me. Madge, my sweet girl—this vagabond, thieving, murdering, masquerading lover of yours is coming to see you.”
With that lighter, better mood upon him, he sought for the piece of paper, on which the plan had been drawn, and traced the paths by which he should reach the cottage; he found, as he had anticipated, that it was within some two or three hundred yards of his own lodge gates.
It was quite dark when he strolled out; but he had the plan very clearly in his mind, and he found his way, without difficulty, to the place he sought. It was a good-sized house, of but two stories, and rambling and old-fashioned; thrusting open a gate, set in the hedge which surrounded it, he walked across trim lawns, in the direction of certain long windows, which lighted a terrace, and behind which the warm glow of lamps and fires was shining.
But, before he reached this terrace, he heard an exclamation, and from out the shadow of some trees a figure came swiftly towards him. For a moment, he hesitated, and half drew back; but the figure came nearer, and he saw that it was Madge Barnshaw. In his great relief, and in his gladness, at that time, to see her friendly face, and her eyes giving him welcome, he took her silently in his arms, and kissed her.
“Dear Dandy,” she said—and her voice was very low and soft—“how I have longed to see you!”
“Not more, dear heart, than I to see you,” he replied. “But I—I have been—been very busy; so many things have occupied my attention—so many things have needed to—to be done. Why—what a poor lover you must think me!”
“Indeed—no,” she said. “Only I feared—such a foolish thought, I know—I feared that something might be wrong with you—feared that you might be in danger. Dandy”—she was twisting a button on his coat round and round in her fingers, and her eyes were bent down, so that he could not see them—“you remember once a long talk we had, about—about your cousin—Mr. Ogledon—don’t you?”
He did not, of course, remember it, for an obvious reason; but, as he was desirous of hearing as much as possible about that gentleman, he answered diplomatically,
“Well—what about him?”
“Dandy—dear old boy—I don’t want you to think that I am uncharitable, or that this is a mere woman’s whim. You remember that you were very angry with me, when last I spoke about him; you said——”