“Captain Helding! What in the name of wonder has the captain to do with it?”
“He told you something about the Atalanta. He said the Atalanta was expected back from Africa immediately.”
“Well, and what of that? Is there anybody in whom you are interested coming home in the ship?”
“Somebody whom I am afraid of is coming home in the ship.”
Mrs. Crayford’s magnificent black eyes opened wide in amazement.
“My dear Clara! do you really mean what you say?”
“Wait a little, Lucy, and you shall judge for yourself. We must go back—if I am to make you understand me—to the year before we knew each other—to the last year of my father’s life. Did I ever tell you that my father moved southward, for the sake of his health, to a house in Kent that was lent to him by a friend?”
“No, my dear; I don’t remember ever hearing of the house in Kent. Tell me about it.”
“There is nothing to tell, except this: the new house was near a fine country-seat standing in its own park. The owner of the place was a gentleman named Wardour. He, too, was one of my father’s Kentish friends. He had an only son.”
She paused, and played nervously with her fan. Mrs. Crayford looked at her attentively. Clara’s eyes remained fixed on her fan—Clara said no more. “What was the son’s name?” asked Mrs. Crayford, quietly.