"Because Maud and I--of course we have held by each other always, and I should have gone on holding, if she had. But I am nothing to her now;"

said poor Sybil bitterly. She had a weak, shallow nature, but it was capable of affection--and Maud's selfish withdrawal of affection, her complete indifference to all that did not concern her own individual interests at a time when in the natural course of things the sisters would have been drawn together by an especially close tie, was felt as keenly as Sybil could feel anything.

"And you think Paul----?" hesitated Leo.

"It's Paul's own look out. He may make her mend her ways. She thinks a lot of him, of course."

"Does she--is she--is she in love with him, Syb?"

"In love with him? I suppose so--after a fashion. She's in love with being married, and having a country house of her own, and a husband to domineer over. And if he should come in for a t.i.tle----"

"But that is not _Paul_;" said Leo, in a low voice. She had herself well in hand, but deep down there were strange emotions at work, stirred by the above. "Do you mean--I wish you would say what you really mean?--I--I sometimes wonder myself----," she stopped.

"Oh, you mustn't take all this too seriously, Leo. Don't look at me as if we were a couple of conspirators. It's no use being cross with Maud because she is what she is. She hasn't fine feelings--no one ever thought she had. But Paul has found that out by this time, I dare say; and when his chance comes he can inoculate her with his. At the worst, he has enough for both;"--and having thus summed up the situation and relieved her feelings at the same time, Sybil turned to other matters.

"Yet even _she_ sees," cried Leo, inwardly, "she sees something, though she does not know, does not guess what it is. And I who do, oh, how shall I bear it,--how shall I bear it? And this is only the beginning--they haven't yet actually begun the real thing,--they are only looking at it, and he----?" She heard Sue's voice calling her, and thrust aside the "he".

Sue wanted a parcel taken to the cottage of an under-gardener, who was ill; and thought that both Henry and his wife would appreciate the attention more if conveyed by one of themselves, than by a servant.

Would Leo go?

"And ask if Dr. Craig has been, and what he says?" further directed Miss Boldero with a little sigh. She was thinking that perhaps this was the last she would ever have to do with either doctor or patient, and Sue had loved much the gentle routine of her daily life, with its easy benefactions and ministrations,--and now all her world, all the world of which she knew anything, lay in ruins around her.

"I'll go," said Leo, taking the parcel.

She was ready to go anywhere, and Henry's cottage was only a short way off, one of a cl.u.s.ter at the edge of the lower garden,--so that even if the rain which threatened did come on, she could find shelter--and on this occasion safe shelter. Paul had gone for a ride, and his rides were long; Maud explained that the exercise was good for him.

But though thus secure, there was another danger to which no thought had been given, and Leo, whose path at this time seemed beset with pitfalls, on emerging from one cottage room, found herself face to face with a visitor issuing from the other. Dr. Craig had not been able to come himself, but had sent his a.s.sistant.

The doctor had paused to rub his chin before doing so, but the summons which stayed his own steps was imperative, and it was a hundred chances to one against Tommy's meeting anybody. The Boldero ladies had been very little about of late, and one of them had already visited the sick man that day. He took the risk.

But he would not have taken it if he had guessed how great the risk was; nor perhaps would young Andrews have gone, had he fore-seen the effect upon himself of that beautiful, mournful, childish face, whose expression?--A cry escaped him. A mad interpretation of it possessed him. His promise? He threw his promise to the winds. No man could keep a promise when confronted with--even to himself he did not say with what,--but before Leonore could escape, or prevent it, the pent-up torrent was loosed.

At first she was petrified,--then flared up. What was the meaning of this? What was she to think? Was Mr. Andrews beside himself? Did he know what he was saying?

Still he poured forth, deaf and blind. Oh, how he had longed for this moment!--the thought of it, the hope of it, had kept him alive through all the wretched, wretched months of separation,--and she, how had she endured--?

"I can endure no more," cried Leonore, with almost a scream. "Be quiet--be quiet--they will hear you,--don't you know that they will hear you?"

"What if they do?" He was past that. "You are here. We are together.

That is enough." He seized her hand, but she fought and struggled, and eventually wrenched herself free. "You--you _dare_?" she panted.

"Oh, I dare--now. I dare anything now."

"You dare to forget who you are? And who I am?"

"Yes, even that. It is nothing when we love each other"--and again he laid hold of her.

"Let me go--let me go."

"But----?"

"If you have not altogether lost your senses, Mr. Andrews, you will leave me this moment--this moment;" she stamped her foot,--"and never, never cross my path again."

"But, Leonore--?"

"Leonore? Oh, this is too insulting--" a burst of tears. "What have I done to be thus degraded?--" and she shook the hand torn from his grasp as though it had been poisoned.

"What have you done? You do not understand----"

"I understand enough--too much." With an effort she changed her tone to one of infinite disdain. "You are under some strange hallucination, Mr.

Andrews, which alone can account for this extraordinary, intolerable behaviour. If my father had been alive--but I am still his daughter, and you, what are _you_?"

The words in themselves might still have failed to arrest him, but the look, the gesture, the withering emphasis on the "_you_?"--he stood still, and after a moment, staggered a step across the pathway like a drunken man.

"If you confess it was all a delusion," resumed Leonore, in slightly modified accents, for she was now only eager to put an end to the scene, and a twinge of pity made itself felt, "if you allow that you have utterly misinterpreted a little ordinary civility--well, perhaps it was more than civility, call it kindness if you will--I will try to forget,--but you also must forget, and never breath a word of this again."

"But--but----" he faltered. Then staggered afresh, unrestrainedly, it might almost have been thought ostentatiously. It was not a pretty spectacle.

"For Heaven's sake, pull yourself together," cried Leonore, with a sense of repulsion. "Be ashamed of this. Own that you are ashamed of it. Own that I never gave you cause to think--that you have been dreaming----"

"Hush. I am awake now," said the young man, slowly. And he turned his burning eyes upon her till she shrank, but this time neither from fear nor loathing; it was a new sensation which made itself disagreeably felt. Was she indeed as innocent as she said? Was there not a faint horrible suspicion of bl.u.s.ter in her fury of contempt and repudiation?

She was silent, struggling with herself.

"You have broken my heart, I think," said Tommy, in the same slow, dull tone. "You have done what I was told you would do. You have played with me, as others of your kind have played with others of mine. G.o.d forgive you for your cruelty, but I--I am awake now,----" and again he muttered to himself like a man in a dream.

"Mr. Andrews, can you say?--stop, I suppose you can. Wait a moment; let me speak. I was lonely, unhappy, absorbed in myself and the empty weariness of my life when--when I met you. I read in your face that you--well, say it was my fault, say it was," suddenly impetuous--"at most it was but a pa.s.sing folly, and it was over almost before it had begun. If it is any satisfaction to you now, I will say that I am--sorry. I can do no more."

"No, you can do no more. It is much for a great lady to go so far. It is the usual thing, I suppose;--" and again his mentor's words, "She was sorry, _so_ sorry," echoed in the speaker's ears--"and the--the episode is at an end. Again I say G.o.d forgive you, Mrs. Stubbs, for I never can."

He was gone, and she rushed homewards, stumbling over every pebble in her path.

CHAPTER XVI.

TEMPTATION.

"Is anything the matter with Leo?" said Maud, the next day. "She is in such an odd mood; and she has scarcely left her room since morning."

"She feels the going away, I think," replied Sybil, not ill-pleased to say it, for she was smarting beneath a fresh instance of her other sister's callousness. "We had a talk yesterday, and I saw she was taking it dreadfully to heart."

"Rather absurd of Leo. She was ready enough to go once; and she can't be as much attached to the place as we are, who have never been away from it;" and Maud looked aggrieved, as people do when others are accredited with finer feelings than they themselves can boast of. "Paul is low to-day, too, but I believe it is lumbago. I only hope it is, and not another attack of fever coming on."

"That would be very inconvenient, certainly," rejoined Sybil, gravely.

It struck her that there was not much sympathy for the sufferer in either case. "What makes you think it is lumbago?"

"He has been sitting over the fire for hours, doing nothing. When I asked him to come and look at these plans, he said another time would do. And you know how he is always ready to look at plans, or do anything I wish."