Again the sash came down, more gently this time, and the light and the kind heart went on climbing up the stairway.
“He wouldn’t have slept well to-night if he had not said ‘God bless you!’ to us,” said Miss Pembroke. “And I believe we shall sleep better for it, too, God bless him!”
They walked up the steep hillside from the lower part of the town toward South Avenue. Half-way up the hill, on a cross-street that led out toward the country, was the cottage in which Lawrence Gerald lived with his mother, his aunt, and Honora Pembroke. As they approached this road, Annette Ferrier’s heart fluttered. Lawrence had been very amiable that evening. He had praised her, had twice smiled very kindly, and had put her shawl over her shoulders before they came out, as though he were really afraid she might take cold. Perhaps he would leave Honora at home first, and then go up with her.
What great good this would do her she could not have explained; for seldom had she heard from him a word too tender to be spoken before witnesses. Still, she wished it. He might say something kind, or listen willingly to some word of affection from her. At any rate, she would be a little longer in his company.
Miss Pembroke anticipated her wish, or had some other reason for making the proposal. “Just go as far as the gate with me, and then you can escort Annette,” she said. “You will not mind a few extra steps, Annette?”
“Oh! come up with us,” the young man interposed hastily. “It is a beautiful night for walking, and I know you are not tired yet. You can bear twice the walking that Annette can.”
She hesitated a moment, then went on with them. His request displeased her on more than one account: she did not like his indifference to the company of his promised wife, and she did not like his preference for being with herself. But his mother would be anxiously watching for him; and it would be something if he could be lured in at an early hour after a quiet evening.
Down in the black heart of the town, among the offices, was a certain back room where the windows were not so closely curtained but those who watched outside could see a thread of light burning all night long. To this room men went sometimes in the hope of mending their fortunes, or, after the demon of gambling had caught them fast, to taste of that fiery excitement which had now become to them a necessity. Honora more than suspected that Lawrence Gerald’s steps had sometimes turned in there. A year or two before, in one of his good moods, he had confessed it to her, with an almost boyish contrition, and had promised never to go again. It was his last confession of the sort, but, she feared, not his last sin. Of what worth were the promises of a weak, tempted man who never sought earnestly the help of God to strengthen his resolution? Of no more value than an anchor without a cable. Lawrence needed to be watched and cared for; so she went on with them.
“I am so sorry to trouble you both,” Miss Ferrier exclaimed, in a voice trembling with anger and disappointment. “I could have had John come for me, if I had thought.” She snatched her hand from the arm of her escort, and pulled her shawl about her with nervous twitches.