But she went quickly up to her room, lest the elder lady should see the angry tears that rose in her eyes.
At first she strove to explain away his change of attitude. Then she examined her own conduct, with a view to discover therein some possible cause. She could find none. A dull sense of pain and dread crept over her. What did it mean? He had kissed her, all but asked her to be his wife, and now, suddenly, he ignored her existence. The realisation of the fulness of her love for him smote her cruelly as she lay awake at night. She shrank, fearful-eyed, from the prospect of life without him. It stretched before her a dreary waste of futile years. Then the quick hope of youth came back. It was some foolish misunderstanding. Sylvester was worried, preoccupied, saddened. There were so many things to be reckoned with in the strenuous life of a man. He would speak, explain. All would be well.
But the days passed and that of Sylvester's departure drew nigh. He had hurried it on. His successor had arrived, been introduced to the practice; no advantage could be gained by remaining at Ayresford, where all save his father was strangely hateful. Ella waited, but Sylvester never spoke nor looked her way. At last she could bear the mortifying suspense no longer. It was the evening before his departure. She was sitting with Miss Lanyon in the drawing-room after dinner, having left the two men below to their coffee and cigars. Her companion was silently knitting, her eyes somewhat dim, poor soul, at the prospect of Sylvester's absence. Ella went to the piano and tried to play, but her heart was not in the music. The men lingered downstairs. An hour passed. The silence and the aching of her own suspense acted on her nerves. Suddenly she left the room and went downstairs and opened the dining-room door. Both men rose as she stood on the threshold, a graceful figure, with heightened colour and eyes unusually bright.
“I want to say something to Syl before he goes,” she announced boldly.
“Here he is,” said Matthew, coming forward. “I was just going into the library for a little as you came in. No; really, Syl, I was. I'll join you upstairs when you have had your chat.”
“You spoil me, Uncle Matthew,” said the girl, touched, as she always was, by his old-fashioned courtesy. “Why can't Syl and I go into the library?”
“Because I'm master in my own house, my dear,” smiled the old man.
He closed the door behind him. Sylvester motioned Ella to a chair.
“No,” she said. “I have not come to stay.”
She was silent for a moment, looking at the tip of her slipper that rested on the fender.