"Yes," Elsie answered; "it was best. I am glad, and yet I often wish she was here."

"You have loved these two without seeing them?" he said, looking at her intently.

"It is easy," she returned, "to know men and women by the footprints they have left and the harvest which they have sown. There are those whom, having not seen, we love."

A shade came over his face. "If I were to die," he said suddenly, "no one would ever love me for the sake of what I had left. As to footprints, they would soon be effaced; and as to the harvest, nothing would crop up but a few wild oats. It's rather a depressing thought, isn't it?"

"Yes," she answered, looking at him in her turn. He was conscious that her soft, dark eyes were resting on him very thoughtfully, and that they were full of gentleness.

He had been left an orphan at nineteen, but he had never blamed any one but himself for the fact that he had done nothing in his life, and that he was going on doing nothing. Uncle Harry Danforth, his mother's brother, had looked after the Rushbrook estate for years, and had spared Arnold all possible trouble. He had given up all responsibilities, just because he chose to give up and let himself drift. But there are moments when a man wakes up to a sudden CONSCIOUSNESS that he has trifled with himself and his past. Had he come here to meet the touch of the vanished hand? There was a pause, and again the soft white wings flew past the window. Then Elsie spoke in a very quiet voice.

"I suppose," she said, "that there are a good many miles before you yet.

You might try a new path and begin sowing afresh."

It was a simple speech, uttered in the simplest manner possible, but it came to him like a new truth. Yet it was a very old thing that she had said--a thing that others had spoken to him a hundred times at least, and he had been as deaf as a stone. Most of the ideas that have really stirred our hearts owe their power to the voice that speaks them.

"Thirty-three is rather an advanced age for a man to begin sowing," he answered. "But I might try, if you think it worth while."

She smiled, a sweet smile that crept up from her lips into her eyes, and lingered there.

"I think it is worth while," she said.

"Very well; I had better start at Rushbrook in the literal sense. My uncle will be delighted, although the ground has been thoroughly looked after, I believe. My relations have done their utmost to make an agriculturist of me. If I spend an autumn down there, and take an interest in things, it will be regarded as a hopeful sign."

"Then you have a home in the country," said Elsie, with a little sigh.

The sigh was not lost on Arnold.

"Yes, I have a quaint old place in Blankshire," he replied. "It overlooks a valley of many streams, in the midst of a quiet pastoral country. Can I persuade you to come and see it with the Lennards, Miss Kilner? Most people think it rather pleasant."

"The Lennards? Oh, I fancy they are going to Switzerland," she said. "I am not sure about their plans, and I have not made any arrangements yet."

"I shall write to Mr. Lennard to-night," Arnold remarked. "If I'm to begin to make myself useful I shall expect all my friends to come to my aid. May I count upon your help, Miss Kilner?"

There was an undertone of earnestness in the light speech and a look of eagerness in his face.

"I would help if I could," she answered. "As to the country, I see it always in my dreams. It is a lost Paradise to me."

"Then why did you leave it?" he asked suddenly.

She coloured, and the dark lashes veiled the trouble in her eyes.

His heart ached for her. Yet, being human, all sorts of doubts and fears came crowding into his brain. Was there an old love-affair and undying constancy? With that intense face of hers she could hardly have escaped love's sorrows.

And then, in an instant, came a flash of wonder at himself. Was he already so nearly in love that he dreaded a possible rival?

"Circ.u.mstances were too strong for me," she replied. "The rector and Mrs. Lennard knew that I had to go. I came to London because I have more friends here than anywhere else."

There was a tremor in her voice that touched him. He felt a sudden longing to be her champion, and prove that "circ.u.mstances" were not too strong for him. A man never looks so well as when he is under the influence of a chivalrous feeling; it can transfigure even a dull face, and Arnold's face was anything but dull. Poor Elsie happened to glance at him at that moment, and a soft glow flushed her cheeks. She tried hard not to think that she was losing her heart.

"It would be so dreadful," she thought, "if I were to make a fool of myself at nine-and-twenty! Can't I venture to enjoy a little friendliness without getting hot cheeks like a school-girl?"

After he was gone she sat dreaming till it grew dusk, and wondering what would become of her when Arnold Wayne had married Mrs. Verdon.

The pigeons had gone to roost, the last blush of crimson had faded from the sky, and the first stars were twinkling faintly in the gloaming.

Elsie thought of Meta, lifted out of all the doubts and troubles of this poor life, and envied her perfect peace.

"Ah," she sighed, "if I could only see her home for one moment, how bravely I could go on living here!"

CHAPTER XIII

_IN PORTMAN SQUARE_

"And quite alone I never felt, I knew that Thou wert near, A silence tingling in the room, A strangely pleasant fear."

--FABER.

Arnold Wayne took his way to Portman Square, thinking about Elsie as he went along. If those two could have looked into each other's hearts just then, they would speedily have come to an understanding.

When he went up the steps of the great house and entered the flower-scented hall, he was in a dreamy mood. And when he found himself in Mrs. Verdon's artistically furnished drawing-room, he had a queer notion that only his phantom self was here and his real self had remained in the little room in All Saints' Street.

His hostess looked very slender and tall and fair in her mauve silk dress. Her satiny hair, wound round her small head, conveyed the idea that if unbound it would enshroud her, like Lady G.o.diva's, in a veil.

The rich glowing colours of the furniture and hangings formed themselves into a harmonious background for the graceful figure.

Mrs. Tell was quietly observing the new-comer, and silently deciding that the chances were in his favour. She had not the faintest doubt about his intentions. All the men who came here proposed to her sister-in-law, and of course he would do the same.

Everybody allowed that nothing could be more agreeable than Mrs.

Verdon's position and surroundings. The house exactly suited Mrs. Tell.

Katherine, whom she liked in her cool way, was not difficult to live with; any change was to be dreaded. But there was always the fear that change would come, and she had an instinctive dread of this Mr. Wayne.

"And so you have been calling on Miss Kilner?" said Mrs. Verdon, as they sat at dinner. "She must come and see me and Jamie. Has she many friends?"

"A great many," replied Arnold, who did not know anything about them.

"I daresay I have met her somewhere," Mrs. Verdon went on. "I have either met her or seen her face in a picture. She has quite a picture-face, hasn't she?"

"Ah, perhaps she has," said Wayne abstractedly, as if the idea had been presented to him for the first time.

"I must have seen her in a picture." Mrs. Tell noticed that Katherine seemed bent on keeping to the subject. "There is a painting of a young woman clasping a Bible to her breast. Don't you know it? That is like her, I think."

"Ah, very likely," rejoined Arnold in an expressionless voice. "I know a man who is always painting pictures of that kind. His girls are always going to suffer for their faith, and they have many costumes, but only one face. It becomes monotonous."

Mrs. Verdon laughed.

"I had my portrait painted once," she said, "but it wasn't like me--it was too intense. I couldn't look like that unless my whole nature had changed. I don't like strong feelings, they make life so uncomfortable."