CHAPTER XXII
NEAR THE RIVER
A dubious sort of day, one that seemed vainly trying to appear cheerful!A day that threw out half-promises, that showed tentatively on the sky amottled blur where the sun should have been! On such a day, a monthafter that night in Lord Ronsdale's rooms, Captain Forsythe, calling onJohn Steele, found himself admitted to the sitting-room. While waitingfor an answer to his request to see Mr. Steele, he gazed disapprovinglyaround him. The rooms were partly dismantled; a number of boxeslittering the place indicating preparations to move. Captain Forsythesurveyed these cases, more or less filled; then he shook his head andlighted a cigar. But as he smoked he seemed asking himself a question;he had not yet found the answer when a footstep was heard and thesubject of his ruminations entered the room. John Steele's face waspaler than it had been; thinner, like that of a man who had recentlysuffered some severe illness.
"Ah, Forsythe!" he said, with an assumption of cheeriness. "So good ofyou!"
"That's all very well," was the answer. "But what about those?" With hiscigar he indicated vaguely the boxes.
"Those? Not yet all packed, are they? Lazy beggars, your Londonservants, just before leaving you!" he laughed.
"See here!" Forsythe looked at him. "You're not well enough yet to--"
"Never felt better!"
"No chance to get you to change your mind, I suppose?"
"Not in the least!"
For a few moments Forsythe said nothing; then, "Weed?" he asked,offering Steele a cigar.
"Don't believe I'll begin just yet a while."
"Oh!" significantly. "Quite fit, eh?" Forsythe's tone sounded, in theleast, scoffing; John Steele went to the window; stood with his back toit. A short time passed; the military man puffed more quickly. It seemedthe irony of fate, or friendship, that now that he was just beginning toget better acquainted with Steele the latter should inconsistentlydetermine to leave London.
"Anything I can do for you when you're away?" began Captain Forsythe."Command me, if there is. Needn't say--"
"There's only one thing," John Steele looked at him; his voice wassteady, quiet. "And we've already spoken about that. You will let meknow if Ronsdale doesn't keep to the letter of the condition?"
"Very well." Captain Forsythe's expression changed slightly, but theother did not appear to notice. "Although I don't imagine thecontingency will arise," he added vaguely, looking at his cigar ratherthan John Steele.
"Nevertheless I shall leave with you certified copies of all thepapers," said Steele in a short matter-of-fact tone. "These, togetherwith the one you furnished me, are absolutely conclusive."
"The one I furnished you!" Captain Forsythe rested his chin on the knobof his stick. "Odd about that, wasn't it?--that the day in the libraryat Strathorn House, when I was about to tell you how I had bettersuccess the second time I visited the landlady, we should have beeninterrupted. And," looking at the other furtively, "by Jocelyn Wray!"Steele did not answer. "If I had only seen the drift of your inquiries,had detected more than a mere perfunctory interest! With the confessiongiven me on her death-bed by the landlady, that she had testifiedfalsely to protect her good-for-nothing son, and acknowledging thatanother whom she did not know by name, but whom she described minutely,had entered the house on the fatal night--with this confession in yourhands, a world of trouble might have been saved. As it is," he endedhalf-ruefully, "you have found me most unlike the proverbial friend inneed, who is--"
"A friend, indeed!" said John Steele, placing a hand on the other'sshoulder, while a smile, somewhat constrained, lighted his face for amoment. "Who at once rose to the occasion; hastened to London on thereceipt of a letter that was surely a test of friendship--"
"Oh, I don't know about that!" quickly. "Test of friendship, indeed!"Captain Forsythe looked slightly embarrassed beneath the keen searchingeyes. "Don't think of it, or--Besides," brightening, "I had to come;telegram from Miss Wray, don't you know."
"Miss Wray!" Steele's hand fell suddenly to his side; he looked withabrupt, swift inquiry at the other.
Captain Forsythe bit his lips. "By Jove!--forgot--" he murmured. "Wasn'tto say anything about that."
"However, as you have--" John Steele regarded him steadily. "Youreceived a telegram from--"
"At the same time that your letter intercepted me at Brighton."
"Asking you to return to London?"
"Exactly. She--wanted to see me."
"About?" John Steele's eyes asked a question; the other nodded. "Ofcourse; not difficult to understand; her desire to hush up the affair;her fear," with a short laugh, "lest the scandal become known. A guestat Strathorn House had been--"
"I don't think it was for--"
"You found out," shortly, "that she, too, had learned--knew--"
"Yes; she made me aware of that at once when she came to see me with SirCharles. It was she sent your luggage--"
"Sir Charles? Then he, also?--"
"No. You--you need feel no apprehension on that score." A peculiarexpression came into the other's glance. "You see his niece told him itwas not her secret; asked him to help her, to trust her. Never was a manmore perplexed, but he kept the word he gave her on leaving for London,and forebore to question her. Even when they drove through London inthat fog--"
"Yes, yes. I know--"
"You? How--?"
John Steele seemed not to hear. "She saw you that night?"
"She did, alone in the garden of Rosemary Villa. Sir Charles behavedsplendidly. 'All right, my dear; some day you'll tell me, perhaps,' hesaid to her. 'Meanwhile, I'll possess my soul in patience.' So while hesmoked in the cab, we talked it over." An instant he regarded JohnSteele as if inviting him to look behind these mere words; but JohnSteele's half-averted face appeared set, uncommunicative. Perhaps againhe saw the girl as he had last seen her at Strathorn House; herfeatures, alive, alight, with scorn and wounded pride.
"Well?" he said shortly. "And the upshot of it all was--"
"She suggested my going to Lord Ronsdale."
"To invoke his assistance, perhaps!" Steele once more laughed. "As anold friend!" Captain Forsythe started to speak; the other went on:"Well, we'll keep his secret, as long as he keeps his compact."
"But--"
"I promised. What does it matter? Sir Charles may be disappointed at notbeing able to bring about--But for her sake--that is the mainconsideration."
"And you, the question of your own innocence--to her?" Forsythe lookedat him narrowly, smiled slightly to himself.
"Is--inconsequential! The main point is--the 'Frisco Pet is dead.Gillett won't speak; you won't; Lord Ronsdale can't. Another to whom Iam about to tell the story, will, I am sure, be equally silent."
"Another? You don't mean to say you are deliberately going to--" CaptainForsythe frowned; a bell rang.
John Steele smiled. "Can you think of no one to whom I am bound to tellthe truth, the whole truth? Who extended me his hand in friendship,invited me to his home? Of course it would be easier to go withoutspeaking; it is rather difficult to own that one has accepted a man'shospitality, stepped beneath his roof and sat at his board, as--not tomince words--an impostor. I could have delegated you--to tell him all;but that wouldn't do. It is probably a part of the old, old debt; but Imust meet him face to face; so I have sent for--"
A servant opened the door of the library; Sir Charles Wray walked in.
* * * * *
Below, in the cab, Jocelyn waited; her pale face expressed restlessness;her eyes, deep and shining, were bent on the river, fixed unseeingly ona small boat that struggled, struggled almost in vain, against thecurrent. Then they lowered to something she held in her hand, a bit ofcrumpled paper. It was John Steele's note to Sir Charles asking him tocall; stating nothing beyond a mere perfunctory request to that end,giving no reason for his wish to see him.
Her eyes lingered on the message; beneath the bright golden hair, herbrows drew together. The handwriting was in the least unlike his,
notquite so bold and firm as that she remembered in one or two messagesfrom him to her--some time ago. But then he had been ill, CaptainForsythe had told her, and was still, he thought, far from well.
She made a movement; the little fingers crumpled the message; then oneof them thrust it within her glove. She continued to sit motionless, howlong? The small boat, with sail at the bow and plodding oar at stern, atlength drew out of sight; the paper made itself felt in her warm palm.Why did not her uncle return? He had been gone some time now; what--whatcould detain him?
"Can you drop in at my chambers for a few minutes?" John Steele hadwritten. "A few minutes;" the blue eyes shone with impatience. He wasleaving London, Captain Forsythe had informed her; and, she concluded,he wanted to see her uncle before he left. But not her, no; she haddriven there, however, with Sir Charles, on some light pretext--for wantof something better to do--to be out in the air--
"I'll wait here in the cab," she had said to her uncle, when he had leftit before John Steele's dwelling. "At least," meeting the puzzled gazethat had rested on her more than once lately, "I may, or may not wait.If I get tired--if when you come back, you don't find me, justconclude," capriciously, "I have gone on some little errand of my own.Shopping, perhaps."
"Jocelyn!" he had said, momentarily held by her eyes, her feverishmanner. "There is something wrong, isn't there? Hasn't the time comeyet, to tell?"
"Something wrong? What nonsense!" she had laughed.
She recalled these words now, found it intolerable to sit still.Abruptly she rose and stepped from the cab.
"My uncle is gone a long while," she said to the man, up behind.
"Oh, no, miss; not so werry!" consulting a watch. "A matter of tenminutes; no more."
No more! She half started to move away; looked toward the house. Brassplates, variously disposed around the entrance and appearing nearly allalike as to form and size, stared at her. One metal sign a shock-headedlad was removing--"John Steele"--she read the plain, modest letters, theinscription, "Barrister" beneath; she caught her breath slightly.
"He certainly is very long," she repeated mechanically.
"Why don't you go in and see wot's detaining of him?" vouchsafed thecabby in amicable fashion as he regarded the hesitating, slender figure."That's wot my missus allus does, when she thinks the occasion--whichI'll not be mentioning--the proper one."
"Third floor to the right, miss!" said the boy, occupied in removing thesign and stepping aside as he spoke, to allow her to pass. "If it's Mr.Steele's office you're looking for! You'll see 'Barrister' in brassletters, as I said to the old gentleman; I haven't got at them yet; totake them down, I mean."
"Thank you," she said irresolutely, and without intending to enter,found herself within the hall. There a narrow stairway lay before her;he pointed to it; with an excess of juvenile solicitude and politeness,boyhood's involuntary tribute to youth and beauty in need of assistance,he told her to go on, "straight up."
And she did, unreasoningly, mechanically; one flight, two flights! Thesteps were well worn; how many people had walked up and down herecarrying burdens with them. Poor people, crime-laden people! Before manydoors, she saw other signs, "Barristers." And of that multitude ofclients, how many left these offices with heavy hearts! In that dim,vague light of stairway and landings she seemed to feel, to see, aghostly procession, sad-eyed, weary. But Captain Forsythe had said thatJohn Steele had helped many, many. Her own heart seemed strangely inert,without life; she stood suddenly still, as if asking herself why she wasthere.
Near his door! About to turn, to retrace her steps--an illogicalsequence to the illogical action that had preceded it, she was held tothe spot by the door suddenly opening; a man--a servant, broom inhand--who had evidently been engaged in cleaning one of the chamberswithin, was stepping out! In surprise he regarded her, this unusual typeof visitor, simply yet perfectly gowned. A lady, or a girl--patrician,aristocratic to her finger-tips; very fair, striking to look upon! Sodifferent from most of the people who came hither to air their troubles,to seek assistance.
"You wished to see Mr. Steele?"
For an instant the servant's words and his direct, almost challenginglook held the girl. Usually self-contained as she was, she felt thatperhaps he had caught some fleeting expression in her eyes, when at hisabrupt appearance she had lifted them with a start from the brassletters. The proud head nodded affirmatively to the inquiry.
"Well, you can be stepping into the library, miss," said the man. "Mr.Steele is engaged just now; but--"
"That is just it," she said, straightening. "My uncle is with him, and Iwished to see--"
"If you will walk in," he said. "You can wait here."
Jocelyn on the instant found no reason for refusing; the door closedbehind her; she looked around. She stood in a library alone; beyond, inanother chamber, she heard voices--her uncle's, John Steele's.
* * * * *
CHAPTER XXIII
PAST AND PRESENT
And yet those tones were not exactly like John Steele's; they soundedfamiliar, yet different. What made the difference? His recent illness?The character of what he was saying, the fact that he representedhimself, not another, in this case? He was speaking quickly, clearly,tersely. Very tersely, thought the girl; not, however, to spare himself;a covert ring of self-scorn precluded that idea.
"Those boxes contained books; yours, Sir Charles!" were the first wordsthe girl caught.
"Mine! Bless my soul!" Her uncle's surprised voice broke in. "You don'tmean to tell me that all those volumes I had boxed for Australia andwhich I thought lost on the _Lord Nelson_ came ashore on your littlecoral isle?"
Came ashore on his coral isle; the girl caught at the words. Of coursehe had been saved, he who had saved her from the wild sea; she hadrealized that after their last meeting at Strathorn House. But how? Hehad reached an island, then--by what means? Some day her uncle wouldtell her; she understood now why he had sent for Sir Charles, the motivethat had prompted him to an ordeal, not at all easy. She was glad; shewould never have told herself, and yet she could realize, divine, thepoignant pain this lifting of the curtain, this laying bare the past,must cost him. She, too, seemed to feel a part of that pain; why? It wasunaccountable.
"Exactly!" said John Steele succinctly. "And never were angels indisguise more foully welcomed!"
"Bless my soul!" Sir Charles' amazed voice could only repeat. "Iremember most of those books well--a brave array; poets, philosophers,lawmakers! Then that accounts for your--! It is like a fairy tale."
"A fairy tale!" Jocelyn Wray gazed around her; at books, books, on everyside. She regarded the door leading out; was half-mindful to go; butheard the man-servant in the hall--and lingered.
"Nothing so pleasant, I assure you," John Steele answered Sir Charlesshortly. Then with few words he painted a picture uncompromisingly; thegirl shrank back; perhaps she wished she had not come. This, truly, wasno fairy tale, but a wild, savage drama, primeval, the picture of a soulbattling with itself on the little lonely isle. She could see the hot,angry sun, feel its scorching rays, hear the hissing of the waves. Allthe man's strength for good, for ill, went into the story; the islebecame as the pit of Acheron; at first there were no stars overhead. Thegirl was very pale; she could not have left now; she had never imaginedanything like this. She had looked into Greek books, seen pictures ofmen chained to rocks and struggling against the anger of the gods--butthey had appeared the mere fantasies of mythology. The drama of thelittle coral isle seemed to unfold a new and real vista of life intowhich she had unconsciously strayed. She hardly breathed; her hand hadleaped to her breast; she felt alternately oppressed, thrilled. Her eyeswere star-like; but like stars behind mist. Strange! strange!
"When the man woke," he had said, "he cursed the sea for bringing him ashe thought nothing. One desire tormented him. It became intolerable. Dayafter day he went down to the ocean, but the surf only leaped inderision. For the thousandth time he cursed it, the isle to which
he wasbound. Weeks passed, until, almost mad through the monotony of the longhours, one day he inadvertently picked up a book. The brute convictcould just read. Where, how he ever learned, I forget. He began to pickout the words. After that--"
"After that?" The girl had drawn closer; his language was plain,matter-of-fact. The picture that he drew was without color; she,however, saw through a medium of her own. The very landscape changednow, remained no longer the terrible, barren environment. She seemed tohear the singing of the birds, the softer murmur of the waves, thepurring of the stream. It was like a mask, one of those poeticinterpolations that the olden poets sometimes introduced in theirtragedies. John Steele paused. Was it over?--Almost; the coral islebecame a study; there was not much more to tell. Through the longmonths, the long years, the man had fought for knowledge as he hadalways fought for anything; with all his strength, passion, energy.
"Incredible! By Jove!" she heard Sir Charles' voice, awed and admiring."I told you, Steele, when you were about to begin, that we people of theantipodes take a man for what he is, not for what he was. But I am gladto have had your confidence and--and--tell me, how did you happen tolight on the law, for special study and preparation?"
"You forget that about half your superb library was law-books, SirCharles. A most comprehensive collection!"
"So they were! But you must have had wonderful aptitude."
"The law--the ramifications it creates for the many, the attendantrestraints for the individual--I confess interested me. You can imaginea personal reason or--an abstract one. From the lonely perspective of atiny coral isle, a system, or systems,--codes of conduct, or morals,built up for the swarming millions, so to speak!--could not but possessfascination for one to whom those millions had become only as thefar-away shadows of a dream. You will find a few of those books, minusfly-leaf and book-plate, it shames me to say!--still in my library,and--"
"Bless you; you're welcome to them," hastily. "No wonder that day in mylibrary you spoke as you did about books. 'Gad! it's wonderful! But yousay at first you could hardly read? Your life, then, as a boy--pardonme; it's not mere idle curiosity."
"As a boy!" John Steele repeated the words almost mechanically. "Myparents died when I was a child; they came of good stock--New England."He uttered the last part of the sentence involuntarily; stopped. "I wasbound out, was beaten. I fought, ran away. In lumber camps, the drunkenriffraff cursed the new scrub boy; on the Mississippi, the sailors andstevedores kicked him because the mate kicked them. Everywhere it wasthe same; the boy learned only one thing, to fight. Fight, or be beaten!On the plains, in the mountains, before the fo'castle, it was the same.Fight, or--" he broke off. "It was not a boyhood; it was a contention."
"I believe you." Sir Charles' accents were half-musing. "And if you willpardon me, I'll stake a good deal that you fought straight." He paused."But to go back to your isle, your magic isle, if you please. You wererescued, and then?"
"In a worldly sense, I prospered; in New Zealand, in Tasmania. Fate, asif to atone for having delayed her favors, now lavished them freely;work became easy; a mine or two that I was lucky enough to locate,yielded, and continues to yield, unexpected returns. Without especiallydesiring riches, I found myself more than well-to-do."
"And then having fairly, through your own efforts, won a place in theworld, having conquered fortune, why did you return to England knowingthe risk, that some one of these fellows like Gillett, the police agent,might--"
"Why," said John Steele, "because I wished to sift, to get to the verybottom of this crime for which I was convicted. For all realwrong-doing--resisting officers of the law--offenses againstofficialdom--I had paid the penalty, in full, I believe. But this othermatter--that was different. It weighed on me through those years on theisland and afterward. A jury had convicted me wrongfully; but I had toprove it; to satisfy myself, to find out beyond any shadow of a doubt,and--"
"He did." For the first time Captain Forsythe spoke. "Steele has in hispossession full proofs of his innocence and I have seen them; they go toshow that he suffered through the cowardice of a miserable cad, a titledscoundrel who struck his hand from the gunwale of the boat when the_Lord Nelson_ went down, yes, you told that story in your feveredramblings, Steele."
"Forsythe!" the other's voice rang out warningly. "Didn't I tell you thepart he played was to be forgotten unless--"
"All right, have your way," grudgingly.
"A titled scoundrel! There was only one person of rank on the _LordNelson_ besides myself, and--Forsythe"--the old nobleman's voice calledout sharply--"you have said too much or too little."
John Steele made a gesture. "I have given my word not to--"
"But I haven't!" said Captain Forsythe. "The confession I procured, andwhat I subsequently learned, led me directly to--Here is the tale, SirCharles."
* * * * *
It was over at last; they were gone, Sir Charles and Captain Forsythe;their hand-clasps still lingered in his. That was something, very much,John Steele told himself; but, oddly, with no perceptible thrill ofsatisfaction. Had he become dead to approval? What did he want? Or whathad been wanting? Sir Charles had been affable, gracious; eminently justin his manner. But the old man's sensibilities had been cruelly shocked;Ronsdale, the son of his old friend, a miserable coward who, if thetruth were known, would be asked to resign from every club he belongedto! And he, Sir Charles, had desired a closer bond between him and onehe loved well, his own niece!
Perhaps John Steele divined why the hearty old man's face had grown sograve. Sir Charles might well experience shame for this retrogression ofone of his own class, the broken obligations of nobility; the traditionsshattered. But he thanked John Steele in an old-fashioned, courtly wayfor what he had once done for his niece whose life he had saved. Perhapsit was the reaction in himself; perhaps John Steele merely fancied adistance in the other's very full and punctilious expression of personalindebtedness; his courteous reiteration that he should feel honored byhis presence at any and all times at his house!
For a few moments now John Steele remained motionless, listening totheir departing footsteps; then turned and gazed around him.
Never had his rooms appeared more cheerless, more barren, more empty.No, not empty; they were filled with memories. Hardly pleasant ones;recollections of struggles, contentions that had led him to--what? Hischambers seemed very still; the little street very silent. Time had beenwhen he had not felt its solitude; now he experienced only a sense ofirksomeness, isolation. The man squared his shoulders and looked outagain from the window toward that small bit of the river he could justdiscern. Once he had gazed at it when its song seemed to be of the greenbanks and flowers it had passed by; but that had been on a faireroccasion; at the close of a joyous, spring day. How it came back to him;the solemn court of justice, the beautiful face, an open doorway, withthe sunshine golden without and a figure that, ere passing into it, hadturned to look back! It was but for an instant, yet again his gazeseemed to leap to that luring light, the passing gleam of her eyes, thathad lingered--
That he saw now! or was it a dream? At the threshold near-by, some onelooked out; some one as fair, fairer, if that could be, whose cheekswore the tint of the wild rose.
"Pardon me; I came up to see if my uncle--"
He stared at her, at the beautiful, tremulous lips, the sheen of herhair--
"You!--"
"Yes." She raised a small, gloved hand and swept back a disorderedtress.
"Your--your uncle has just gone," he said.
"I know."
"You do?" He knew it was no dream, that the fever had not returned, thatshe really stood there. Yet it seemed inexplicable.
"I was in the library when they--went out. I had come up to see--I waswith my uncle in the cab--and wondered why he--"
She stopped; he took a quick step toward her. "You were in there, thatroom, when--"
"Yes," she said, and threw back her head, as if to contradict a suddenmistiness that seemed
stupidly sweeping over her gaze. "Why did you nottell me--you did not?--that you were innocent?"
"You were in there?" He did not seem to catch her words."Heard--heard--?"
A moment they stood looking at each other; suddenly she reached out herhands to him. With a quick exclamation he caught and held them.
But in a moment he let them fall. What had he been about to say, to do,with the fair face, the golden head, so near? He stepped backquickly--madness! Had he not yet learned control? Had the lessons notbeen severe enough? But he was master of himself now, could look at hercoldly. Fortunately she had not guessed, did not know he had almost--Shestood near the back of a chair, her face half-averted; perhaps sheappeared slightly paler, but he was not sure; it might be only theshadow of the thick golden hair.
"You--are going away?" She was the first to speak. Her voice was, in theleast, uncertain.
"To-morrow," without looking at her.
"Where, if I may ask?"
"To my own country."
"America."
"Yes."
"It is very large," irrelevantly. "I remember--of course, you are anAmerican; I--I have hardly realized it; we, we Australians are not sounlike you."
"Perhaps," irrelevantly on his part, "because your country, also, is--"
"Big," said the girl. Her hands moved slightly. "Are--are you going toremain there? In America, I mean?"
He expected to; John Steele spoke in a matter-of-fact tone; he couldtrust himself now. The interview was just a short, perfunctory one; itwould soon be over; this he repeated to himself.
"But--your friends--here?" Her lips half-veiled a tremulous littlesmile.
"My friends!" Something flashed in his voice, went, leaving him veryquiet. "I am afraid I have not made many while in London." Her eyeslifted slightly, fell. "Call it the homing instinct!" he went on with alaugh. "The desire once more to become part and parcel of one's nativeland; to become a factor, however small, in its activities."
"I don't think you--will be--a small factor," said the girl in a lowtone.
He seemed not to hear. "To take up the fight where I left it, when aboy--"
"The fight!" The words had a far-away sound; perhaps she saw once more,in fancy, an island, the island. Life was for strong people, strivingpeople. And he had fought and striven many times; hardest of all, withhimself. She stole a glance at his face; he was looking down; thesilence lengthened. He waited; she seemed to find nothing else to say.He too did not speak; she found herself walking toward the door.
"Good-by." The scene seemed the replica of a scene somewhere else,sometime before. Ah, in the garden, amid flowers, fragrance. There wereno flowers here--
"Good-by." He spoke in a low voice. "As I told Captain Forsythe,you--you need not feel concern about the story ever coming out--"
"Concern? What do you mean?"
"Your telegram to Captain Forsythe, the fear that brought you toLondon--"
"The--you thought that?"--swiftly.
"What else?"
The indignation in her eyes met the surprise in his.
"Thank you," she said; "thank you for that estimate of me!"
"Miss Wray!" Contrition, doubt, amazement mingled in his tone.
"Good-by," she said coldly.
And suddenly, as one sees through a rift in the clouds the clear light,he understood.
* * * * *
"You will go with me? You!"
"Why, as for that--"
Fleece of gold! Heaven of blue eyes! They were so near!
"And if I did, you who misinterpret motives, would think--"
"What?"
"That I came here to--"
"I should like to think that."
"Well, I came," said the girl, "I don't know why! Unless the boy who wastaking down the signs had something to do with it!"
"The--?"
"He said to go 'straight up'!" she laughed.
He laughed, too; all the world seemed laughing. He hardly knew what hesaid, how she answered; only that she was there, slender, beautiful, asthe springtime full of flowers; that a miracle had happened, washappening. The mottled blur in the sky had become a spot of brightness;sunshine filled the room; in a cage above, a tiny feathered creaturebegan to chirp.
"And Sir Charles? Lady Wray?" He spoke quietly, but with wild pulsing oftemples, exultant fierce throbbing of heart; he held her from all theworld.
"They?" She was silent a moment; then looked up with a touch of her old,bright imperiousness. "My uncle loves me, has never denied me anything,and he will not in this--that is, if I tell him--"
"What?"
Did her lips answer; or was it only in her wilful, smiling eyes that heread what he sought?
"Jocelyn!"
Above the little bird, with a red spot on its breast, bent its bead-likeeyes on them; but neither saw, noticed. Besides, it was only a successorto the bird that had once been hers; that had flown like a flashingjewel from her soul to his, in that place, seawashed, remote from theworld.
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