"And I never knew," said Osmond, in a slow, absorbed way.

"And so I asked Jane to go back round by the road because--because I wanted to see your face; and when we got there you were lying on the gra.s.s."

Here the lip quivered. Allonby threw himself forward in his chair, his chin on his elbow.

"I saw your face," he said, earnestly. "Tell me, did you not--were you not kneeling by me, and--and _weeping_?"

The girl nodded, hardly able to speak.

"You opened your eyes," she said, very low, after a pause, "and looked at me for a moment; but not as if you knew me."

"But I saw you. Do you know"--sinking his voice--"that your face was with me all through my illness--your face, as I saw it to-day, with tears on your eyelashes?... I knew even your voice, when I have heard it in the garden, and I have been lying in bed. I knew when you laughed and when you spoke ... and I counted the hours till I should be well enough to see you and thank you. You'll let me thank you, won't you?"

He took her hand again. The child--for she was no more--could not speak.

It seemed as if light were breaking so swiftly in upon her soul that the glare dazzled her. She was helpless--almost frightened. Osmond saw that he must be careful not to startle or vex her. With a great effort he curbed his own excitement, and took a lighter tone.

"Think what a benefactor in disguise my unknown a.s.sailant has been!" he cried brightly. "What have I lost? Nothing--absolutely nothing but a pudding-basin; what have I gained?" He made an eloquent sweep of the hand. "Everything! In fact, I can hardly realise at present what my gain is. To be ill--to be tenderly nursed--to have enquiries made all day by kind friends--to have my name in all the local papers--to be interviewed at least once a day by gentlemen of the press. I a.s.sure you that I never before was the centre of attraction; I hope it will last. That day's sketching in the lane may turn out to be the best stroke of business I ever did."

"But," cried Elsa, remonstrating, "you don't count all the pain you had to bear?"

"Pain!" he said, almost incoherently. "Did I? Have I borne pain? Oh, it counts for nothing, for I have forgotten all about it."

"Really and truly? Have you forgotten it?"

"Really and truly, just now. I may remember it presently, when I am crawling upstairs to bed to-night, with my arm round Joe Battishill's neck; but just now it is clean gone, and every day I shall grow stronger, you know."

She did not answer. She saw fate, in the shape of Jane Gollop, bearing down upon her from the open farm-house door.

"Miss Elaine, my dear, you wasn't to stay but a very little while to-day; and, if we don't start back, you won't be in time to go to the station with your Aunt Charlotte to meet your brother, you know."

"To meet your brother!" echoed Osmond.

"Yes." She turned to him. "He is my step-brother; I have never seen him since he was a baby."

"Really? That sounds odd; but you are orphans; I suppose he is being brought up by other relations. I think it was cruel to separate you. How old is he?"

"Just fourteen. I am glad he is coming at last."

"I suppose so; and you will be so happy together that you will forget to come up to Poole and see the poor sick man?"

"You _know_ I shall not. I shall bring G.o.dfrey."

"Yes, do. Please come soon. But I ought not to be so grasping, and I have never thanked you properly for coming to-day. What an unmannerly brute I am. Please forgive me! Don't punish me by staying away, will you?"

She drew near, and spoke low, that Jane might not hear.

"I shall come whenever they let me," she said, with vehemence; "whenever I don't come, you will know it is because I was forbidden. If they would allow it, I'd come _every single day_."

CHAPTER XIX.

I find you pa.s.sing gentle.

'Twas told me you were rough, and coy, and sullen, And now I find report a very liar; For thou art pleasant, gamesome, pa.s.sing courteous, But slow in speech, yet sweet as spring time flowers: Thou canst not frown, thou canst not look askance, Nor bite the lip, as angry wenches will.

_Taming of the Shrew._

It was quite an unusual event for Miss Charlotte Willoughby to be standing on the platform watching the arrival of the London train. Her preparation for the expedition had been made in quite a flutter of expectation. She was resolved to do her duty thoroughly by G.o.dfrey Brabourne, much as she had disliked his mother. She had hopes that a stay in a household of such strict propriety, where peace, order, and regularity reigned supreme, might perchance work an improvement in the boy, do something to eradicate the pernicious influence of early training, and cause him, in after life, to own with a burst of emotion that he dated the turning-point in his career from the moment when his foot first trod the threshold of Edge Willoughby. This was a consummation so devoutly to be wished, as to go far towards reconciling the good lady to the presence of a boy in the virgin seclusion of the house. Elsa, at her side, was stirred to the deepest depths of her excitable temperament, each faculty poised, each nerve a-quiver as she hung bashfully back behind her aunt.

There was a long wild howl, a dog's howl, followed by a series of sharp yelps and a sound of scuffling; a crowd collected round the dog-box. A small boy in an Eton suit dashed down the platform, parted the spectators right and left, and revealed to view the panic-stricken guard, with a bull-dog hanging to his trousers.

"Ven! Come off, you confounded brute! How dare you!" cried the little boy in shrill tones, as he seized the dog by the collar, and dragged him off. "Didn't I tell you, you idiot," he went on to the guard, "not to touch him till I came! What fools people are, always meddling with what ain't their concern. Why couldn't you let my dog alone, eh? I don't pity you, blessed if I do," concluded he in an off-hand manner, cuffing his dog heartily, and shaking him at the same time. "I'll teach you manners, you scoundrel," he said, furiously; "and now, what am I to be let in for over this job? Has he drawn blood?"

Elsa and her aunt were so absorbed, as was everyone else, in watching this episode, as to temporarily forget their errand at the station; but now the girl began to peer among the little crowd of bystanders, to see if she could spy anybody who looked like G.o.dfrey.

"Auntie," she whispered, "hasn't G.o.dfrey come?"

"I--am not sure."

A cold fear, a presentiment, was stealing over Miss Charlotte's mind.

Something in the voice, the air, the face of the dreadful boy with the bull-dog, reminded her uncomfortably of her deceased brother-in-law, Valentine Brabourne. She wavered a little, while vehement and angry recriminations went on between him and the railway-officials, noticed with a shudder how he felt in his trousers' pockets and pulled out loose gold, and was still in a state of miserable uncertainty when he turned round, and demanded, in high, shrill tones:

"Isn't there anybody here to meet me from Edge Willoughby?"

Both aunt and niece started, and gasped. Then Miss Charlotte went bravely forward.

"Are you G.o.dfrey Brabourne?" she asked, with shaking voice, more than half-ashamed to have to lay claim to such a boy before a little concourse of spectators who all knew her by sight. The guard lifted his cap, surprised, and half-apologetic.

"Pardon, mum," he grumbled, "but I do say as a young gentleman didn't oughter travel with that dog unmuzzled. He didn't ought to do it; for you never know where the beast'll take a fancy to bite, and a man with a family's got hydrophobia to consider."

"Hydrophobia! Hydro-fiddlestick!" cried G.o.dfrey, making a grimace. "He ain't even broken the skin, and I've given you a couple of sovs.--a deuced lot more than those bags of yours ever cost." This speech elicited a laugh all round, and seemed to congeal Miss Charlotte's blood in her veins. "So now you just go round the corner and treat your friends. Why, if you had any sense, you wouldn't mind being bitten every day for a week at that price. How d'ye do, Miss Willoughby? My aunt Ottilie sent her kind regards, or something."

"Will you--come this way?" said Miss Charlotte, desperately, possessed only by the idea of hastening from this scene of public disgrace. "Come, my dear, come! If the guard is satisfied, let the matter rest. I am sure it is very imprudent to travel with so savage a dog unmuzzled. Dear, dear! what are you going to do with him?"

"Do with him? Nothing. He's all right; he's not mad. That a.s.s must needs go dragging him out of the dog-box or something, that's all. He wouldn't hurt a fly."

Miss Charlotte paused in her headlong flight from the station.

"G.o.dfrey, I regret--I deeply regret it, but I can on no account allow that beast to be taken up to the house. I cannot permit it--he will be biting everybody."

"Oh, he's all right," was the cool retort. "Chain him up in the stables, if you're funky. Leave him alone. He'll follow the trap right enough if I'm in it. Now then, where are your cattle?"

Miss Charlotte unconsciously answered this, to her, incomprehensible question by laying her lean hand, which trembled somewhat, on the handle of the roomy, well-cushioned wagonette which the ladies of Edge found quite good enough to convey them along the country lanes to shop in Philmouth, or call on a friend. The plump, lazy horse stood swishing his tail in the sunshine, and Acland, the deliberate, bandy-legged coachman, was in the act of placing a smart little portmanteau on the box.

"Now then--room for that inside--just put that portmanteau inside, will you? I'm going to drive," announced Master G.o.dfrey; and, as he spoke, he turned suddenly, and for the first time caught sight of Elsa.