CHAPTER X

While Andrew was still patiently waiting in London, a south-bound express swung down the long slope from Shap; past Oxenholme, past Milnthorpe, past Carnforth, out into the green levels of Lancashire. In one corner of a first-cla.s.s carriage sat Jean Walkingshaw, her eyes smiling approval at that very paper which was to disturb her brother's serenity a few hours later. Her father sat opposite watching her.

"Well, what do you think of it?" he inquired.

"I think it's most amusing and--and--"

"Spirited?"

"Oh, very spirited!" she laughed. "In fact, I think it's a splendid speech."

He seemed gratified.

"Some fellows didn't seem to care for it," he observed.

"They must have been very stupid, then!"

"Old buffers generally are," he replied. "Some of the young chaps thought it first-rate, even though they were a little startled for the moment. Though why people should feel startled by anything so self-evident as my remarks beats me. Be hanged to them for silly idiots!

Eh, Jean?"

His momentary expression of chagrin made way for a merry smile, which set his daughter smiling gaily back.

"If they disagree with you, father, they must be!" she laughed.

They sat silent for a few minutes, Jean watching the green fields and trees and gates and walls rush past to join the jagged fells behind them, her father watching her.

"It's awfully good of you taking me back with you," she said presently.

"If it's a treat for you, you deserve it," he answered affectionately; "and if it's not--well, anyhow, it's pleasant for me having your company."

"It is a treat for me, though I don't quite see what I've done to deserve it."

"You have stood by your father, my dear; and one good turn deserves another. I'd have been most infernally sick if I'd forgotten that dinner. It gave me the very chance of saying a word or two in season I'd been longing for. I only hope it will do the old fogies good."

He took up the paper and glanced again at the report.

"'Remarkable speech,' they call it," he continued complacently. "Well, they are not very far wrong. It _was_ a remarkable speech. Eh, Jean?"

The good gentleman seemed unable to obtain his daughter's approval often enough. The fact was he had been a trifle disappointed with the att.i.tude of some of his old friends last night. There was no doubt about it, he must go to the young folks for the meed of sympathy he deserved.

Jean again looked out of the window, but she ceased to pay much attention to the backward-drifting landscape. Her heart was too full of hopes and questionings and restless wonder. In a little she turned to her father again and said, with an eye so candid and a smile so kind that many members even of her own s.e.x would never have suspected a hint of ulterior design--

"Do you know, you are the very best of fathers!"

He replied in the same spirit of affection, and she continued--

"I can't tell you how much I am looking forward to being in London again! You couldn't have done anything I'd have liked better."

"Yes," he confessed, "London is an amusing place."

"And one always meets so many people one knows there. That is one of its attractions."

He agreed that it was.

"I wonder who I'll meet this time?"

She spoke with an air of the most innocent speculation, but the nature of her parent's smile changed subtly.

"Goodness knows who one will meet in London," he replied. "Not Andrew, we'll hope, eh? I wonder where he is now."

At this change of subject her breast gave a quick little heave that might have marked a stifled sigh, but she dutifully joined in what she could not but think an unnecessarily prolonged series of speculations regarding the movements of a quite uninteresting young man.

But her eyes were very bright indeed and her face distinct with suppressed excitement as they drove from Euston Station into the life of the streets. All the while she kept looking out of the cab window, as though amid the pa.s.sing myriads she might happen already to recognize one of those acquaintances she hoped to meet. At last she was in London! And London in early spring; London with the s.m.u.ts washed off by torrential showers and then flooded with glorious sunshine; London with the young leaves like a thin veil of green on the limes and elms, and the ta.s.sels hanging from the poplars, and the sycamores and horse chestnuts already casting grateful shade; London with the mowing machines whirling in the parks and the watering-carts swishing down the streets--is a fairy city for a young girl with a large hotel to live in, a generous father, and a lover somewhere hidden in those mysterious miles of crowds and houses. Jean half wished she could feel a little less impatient, so that she might relish every pa.s.sing moment to its dregs.

Her father, Frank, and she dined sumptuously and went to the most entertaining play afterwards--a stimulating medley of waltz refrains and gorgeous clothes and a funny man and fifty pretty girls. She did not pose as a dramatic critic, and thought it splendid. Then they had supper at the Savoy, and--so to bed.

But though she had gone to her room, Jean lingered for long before her open window, looking wistfully over the humming, lamp-lit town. _His_ name had not been mentioned.

CHAPTER XI

Lucas painted, but not so fiercely as before; and again from the deck-chair Hillary watched him. He rented the studio next door, and having a comfortable private income of 80 a year, generally spent his afternoons encouraging his friend. Occasionally, however, he considered it advisable to supply chastening reflections.

"I don't like it," he observed.

"Don't like what?"

"If he really meant to buy those pictures, I can't help thinking you would have heard from him again."

The artist turned abruptly.

"It was only three days ago. I don't expect to hear yet."

"Dear old Lucas, I don't want to discourage you, but I call it fishy.

Supposing he has met some one since who really knew something about pictures?"

His friend resumed work in silence.

"There is also another possibility," continued Hillary in his gentle voice. "He struck me as suspiciously extravagant--supposing he has gone bankrupt? I noticed, too, that his complexion was somewhat rubicund--supposing he has had an apoplectic fit? In that case, would his executors be bound by his verbal promise? Honestly, Lucas, I don't think so."

There came a sharp rap on the door.

"It will relax the strain on your intellect if you go and see who that is," suggested the painter.

"A telegram," said Hillary, strolling back from the door.