But the lamp lit Lawford went out again and welcomed his visitor. “I am alone,” he was explaining gravely, “my wife’s away and the whole house topsy-turvy. How very, very kind of you!”
The old lady was breathing a little heavily after her ascent of the steep steps, and seemed not to have noticed his outstretched hand. None the less she followed him in, and when she was well advanced into the lighted room, she sighed deeply, raised her veil over the front of her bonnet, and leisurely took out her spectacles.
“I suppose,” she was explaining in a little quiet voice, “you are Mr. Arthur Lawford, but as I did not catch sight of a light in any of the windows I began to fear that the cabman might have set me down at the wrong house.”
She raised her head, and first through, and then over her spectacles she deliberately and steadfastly regarded him.
“Yes,” she said to herself, and turned, not as it seemed entirely with satisfaction, to look for a chair. He wheeled the most comfortable up to the table.
“I have been visiting my old friend Miss Tucker—Rev W. Tucker’s daughter—she, I knew, could give me your address; and sure enough she did. Your road, d’ye see, was on my way home. And I determined, in spite of the hour, just to inquire. You must understand, Mr. Lawford, there was something that I rather particularly wanted to say to you. But there!—you’re looking sadly, sadly ill; and,” she glanced round a little inquisitively, “I think my story had better wait for a more convenient occasion.”
“Not at all, Miss Sinnet; please not,” Lawford assured her, “really. I have been ill, but I’m now practically quite myself again. My wife and daughter have gone away for a few days; and I follow tomorrow, so if you’ll forgive such a very poor welcome, it may be my—my only chance. Do please let me hear.”
The old lady leant back in her chair, placed her hands on its arms and softly panted, while out of the rather broad serenity of her face she sat blinking up at her companion as if after a long talk, instead of at the beginning of one. “No,” she repeated reflectively, “I don’t like your looks at all; yet here we are, enjoying beautiful autumn weather, Mr. Lawford, why not make use of it?”
“Oh yes,” said Lawford, “I do. I have been making tremendous use of it.”
Her eyelid flickered at his candid glance. “And does your business permit of much walking?”
“Well, I’ve been malingering these last few days idling at home; but I am usually more or less my own man, Miss Sinnet. I walk a little.”
“H’m, but not much in my direction, Mr. Lawford?” she quizzed him.
“All horrible indolence, Miss Sinnet. But I often—often think of you; and especially just lately.”
“Well, now,” she wriggled round her head to get a better view of him rather stiffly seated on his chair, “that’s very peculiar; because I too have been thinking lately a great deal of you. And yet—I fancy I shall succeed in mystifying you presently—not precisely of you, but of somebody else!”
“You do mystify me—‘somebody else’!” he replied gallantly. “And that is the story, I suppose?”
“That’s the story,” repeated Miss Sinnet with some little triumph. “Now, let me see; it was on Saturday last—yes, Saturday evening; a wonderful sunset; Bewley Heath.”
“Oh yes; my daughter’s favourite walk.”
“And your daughter’s age now?”
“She’s nearly sixteen; Alice, you know.”
“Ah, yes, Alice; to be sure. It is a beautiful walk, and if fine, I generally take mine there too. It’s near; there’s shade; it’s very little frequented; and I can wander and muse undisturbed. And that I think is pretty well all that an old woman like me is fit for, Mr. Lawford. ‘Nearly sixteen!’ Is it possible? Dear, dear me? But let me get on. On my way home from the Heath, you may be aware, before one reaches the road again, there’s a somewhat steep ascent. I haven’t the strength I had, and whether I’m fatigued or not, I have always made it a rule to rest awhile on a most convenient little seat at the summit, admire the view—what I can see of it—and then make my way quietly, quietly home. On Saturday, however, and it most rarely occurs—once, I remember, when a very civil nursemaid was sitting with two charmingly behaved little children in the sunshine, and I heard they were my old friend Major Loder’s son’s children—on Saturday, as I was saying, my own particular little haunt was already occupied.” She glanced back at him from out of her thoughts, as it were. “By a gentleman. I say, gentleman; though I must confess that his conduct—perhaps, too, a little something even in his appearance, somewhat belied the term. Anyhow, gentleman let us call him.”
Lawford, all attention, nodded, and encouragingly smiled.
“I’m not one of those tiresome, suspicious people, Mr. Lawford, who distrust strangers. I have never been molested, and I have enjoyed many and many a most interesting, and sometimes instructive, talk with an individual whom I’ve never seen in my life before, and this side of the grave perhaps, am never likely to see again.” She lifted her head with pursed lips, and gravely yet still flickeringly regarded him once more. “Well, I made some trifling remark—the weather, the view, whatnot,” she explained with a little jerk of her shoulder—“and to my extreme astonishment he turned and addressed me by name—Miss Sinnet. Unmistakably—Sinnet. Now, perhaps, and very rightly, you won’t consider that a very peculiar thing to do? But you will recollect, Mr. Lawford, that I had been sitting there a considerable time. Surely, now, if you had recognised my face you would have addressed me at once?”
“Was he, do you think, Miss Sinnet, a little uncertain, perhaps?”
“Never mind, never mind; let me
