'Do you really think of going on in that business, which you detest?'

'It has brought in a little money, and may--ought to--bring more. But if Morphew goes down----'

Alma glanced at him, and said timidly----

'You are going to Greystone at Easter.'

'We shall all go. What of that?'

'Haven't you'--she spoke with an effort--'sometimes thought you would like to live there?'

'Great heavens--Alma!'

He stared at her in humorous astonishment, then slowly shook his head.

How could _she_ live in such a place as Greystone? And what on earth did she mean by disturbing him with such a suggestion? But Alma, gravely and repeatedly, a.s.sured him that she could live there very well; that in all likelihood she would be much more contented there than here.

'I should bring out my violin again, and the Greystone people would admire me. There's a confession--to prove that I am in earnest. I can't conquer the world; I don't wish it; that's all over. But I should find it pleasant to have a reputation in Greystone--I should indeed.'

Harvey sighed, and could not look at her.

'And Hughie,' she continued, 'would go to the Grammar-School. You know how you would like that. And living there is cheap; we might keep our horse again.--Don't say anything now, but think about it.'

He raised his eyes, and fixed them upon her with a look of infinite tenderness and grat.i.tude. It was Alma now who sighed, but not audibly.

Before Thistlewood went north again, Harvey enjoyed long talks with him. Mary Abbott he saw only in the presence of other people. But on an evening in February, when Alma was at the Langlands' and he had promised to call for her at ten o'clock, he left home an hour earlier and walked past Mrs. Abbott's house. A light in the window of her sitting-room showed that Mary was at home. After a turn or two backwards and forwards, he went up to the door and knocked. A very young servant took his name to her mistress, and then admitted him.

'Will you let me answer your letter personally?' he said, as Mrs.

Abbott welcomed him in the room where she sat alone.

She had written about Minnie Wager, begging that he would in future cease to contribute to the girl's support, and be responsible only for the boy. In her new home there would be no need of a servant; she and Minnie would do the housework together. Impossible, she wrote, to speak of his kindness both to her and the children. For Minnie, who might henceforth be looked upon as self-supporting, he must no longer be taxed. The child owed him every hope in her life; let him be satisfied with what he had done so generously.

Of these things they talked for a few minutes. It was easy to see how great a change had befallen Mary Abbott's outlook upon life. She was younger by several years, yet not like herself of that earlier time; much gentler, much sweeter in face and word. Harvey observed her with keen pleasure, and, becoming aware of his gaze, his smile, she blushed like a girl.

'Mr. Rolfe--I am sure you feel that I am deserting my post.'

'To be sure you are. I shall always owe you a grudge for it.'

'I thought of it all--of Hughie and the others. I didn't know how I should ever face you.'

''Twas a shameless thing. And yet I can find it in my heart to forgive you. You are so ingenuous about it.'

Mary looked up again.

'What shall you do--about Hughie?'

'Oh, there's a great scheme on foot. Alma suggests that we shall go and live at Greystone. It tempts me.'

'That it must, indeed! I know how you would like it.'

'We shouldn't be so very far apart then--an hour's journey or so. You would come to us, and we to you.'

'Delightful!'

They had not much more to say, but each was conscious of thought in the other's mind that supplemented their insufficient phrases. As they shook hands, Mary seemed trying to speak. The lamplight made a glimmer in her eyes, and their lids drooped as she said at length----

'I am so glad that you like each other.'

'He's a splendid fellow,' replied Rolfe joyously. 'I think no end of him.'

'And he of you--for I have told him everything.'

Then Harvey quitted the house, and walked about under the starry sky until it was time to call for Alma.

CHAPTER 10

Yet once again did Alma hypnotise her imagination with a new ideal of life. Her talk was constantly of Greystone. She began a correspondence with Mrs. Morton, who did her best to encourage all pleasant antic.i.p.ations--careful the while, at her husband's bidding and Harvey's too, not to exaggerate the resources of Greystone for a mind and temper such as Alma's. Of course the little town had its musical circle, in which Mrs. Rolfe's talent would find an appreciative reception.

Touching on this point to her correspondent, Alma remarked, with emphasised modesty, that she must _not_ be regarded as a professional violinist; it would be better, perhaps, if nothing were said about her 'rather audacious experiment' in London. Meanwhile, a suitable house was being looked for. There need be no hurry; Midsummer was the earliest possible date for removal, and a few months later might prove more convenient.

At Easter came Mary Abbott's wedding, which was celebrated as quietly as might be. Alma had done her utmost to atone for bygone slights and coldness; she and Mary did not love each other, nor ever could, and for that reason they were all the more affectionate at this agitating time.

When all was over, the Rolfes set forth on their visit to Greystone.

Harvey could not look forward to complete enjoyment of the holiday, for by this time Cecil Morphew had succ.u.mbed to his old habits of tossing indolence, and only pretended to look after his business. If Harvey withdrew, the shop must either be closed or pa.s.s into other hands.

Pecuniary loss was the least vexatious part of the affair. Morphew, reckless in the ruin of his dearest hope, would seek excitement, try once more to enrich himself by gambling, and so go down to the depths whence there is no rescue. As a last hope, Harvey had written to Henrietta Winter a long letter of all but pa.s.sionate appeal; for answer he received a few lines, infinitely sorrowful, but of inflexible resolve. 'In the sight of G.o.d, Mr. Morphew already has a wife. I should be guilty of a crime if I married him.' With a desperate e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n, Rolfe crushed up the sheet of paper, and turned to other things.

Whilst she was at Greystone, Alma heard again from Felix Dymes, his letter having been forwarded. He wrote that Mrs. Strangeways was about to return to England, and that before long she might be heard of at a certain hotel in London. As this letter had escaped Harvey's notice, Alma was spared the necessity of shaping a fiction about it. Glad of this, and all but decided to put Mrs. Strangeways utterly out of her life and mind, she sent no answer.

But when she had been back again for some weeks at Gunnersbury; when a house at Greystone was taken (though it would not be ready for them till Michaelmas); when she was endeavouring, day after day, to teach Hughie, and to manage her servants, and to support a wavering hope, there arrived one morning a letter from Mrs. Strangeways. It was dated from the hotel which Dymes had mentioned, and it asked Alma to call there. A simple, friendly invitation, suggestive of tea and chat. Alma did not speak of it, and for an hour or two thought she could disregard it altogether. But that evening she talked to Harvey of shopping she had to do in town, and the following afternoon she called upon Mrs.

Strangeways.

A lift carried her to the topmost, or all but topmost, storey of the vast hotel, swarming, murmurous. She entered a small sitting-room, pretentiously comfortless, and from a chair by the open window--for it was a day of hot sunshine--Mrs. Strangeways rose to greet her; quite in the old way, smiling with head aside, cooing rapidly an effusive welcome. Alma looked round to see that the door was shut; then, declining the offered hand, she said coldly----

'You are mistaken if you think I have come as a friend.'

'Oh! I am so sorry to hear you say that. Do sit down, and let me hear all about it. I have so looked forward to seeing you.'

'I am only here to ask what good it can do you to talk ill of me.'

'I really don't understand. I am quite at a loss.'

'But I know for certain that you have tried to injure me by telling extraordinary falsehoods.'

Mrs. Strangeways regarded her with an air of gently troubled deprecation.

'Oh, you have been grievously misled. Who can have told you this?'

'The name doesn't matter. I have no doubt of the fact.'