Mrs. John was in the verandah, gardening—arranging the pots in which her pelargoniums were beginning to bloom. She would have had him stay and help her, asking many questions about Ellen and her baby which Harry was unable to answer.
“Might I speak to Hester?” he said. “I have no time to stay; I would like to see her for a moment.”
“What is it?” cried Mrs. John. Harry’s embarrassment, she thought, could only mean one thing—a sudden impulse to renew the suit which Hester had been so foolish as to reject. She looked at him kindly and shook her head. “She is in the parlour; but I wouldn’t if I were you,” she said, her eyes moist with sympathy. It was hard upon poor Harry to be compelled thus to take upon himself the credit of a second humiliation.
“I should like to see her, please,” he answered, looking steadfastly into Mrs. John’s kind, humid eyes, as she shook her head in warning.
“Well, my dear boy; she is in the parlour. I wish—I wish—But, alas! there is no change in her, and I wouldn’t if I were you.”
“Never mind, a man can but have his chance,” said magnanimous Harry. He knew that few men would have done as much, and the sense of the sacrifice he was making made his heart swell. His pride was to go too; he was to be supposed to be bringing upon himself a second rejection; but “Never mind, it is all in the day’s work,” he said to himself, as he went through the dim passages and knocked at the parlour door.
Hester was sitting alone over a little writing-desk on the table. She was writing hurriedly, and he could see her nervous movement to gather together some sheets of paper, and shut them up in her little desk, when she found herself interrupted. She gave a great start when she perceived who it was, and sprang up, saying, “Harry!” breathlessly, as if she expected something to follow. But at first Harry was scarcely master of himself to speak. The girl he loved, the one woman who had moved his dull, good, tenacious heart—she whom, he thought, he should be faithful to all his life, and never care for another; but he knew that her start, her breathless look, the colour that flooded her face, coming and going, were not for him, but for someone else, and that his question would plunge her into trouble too; that he would be to her henceforth as an emissary of evil, perhaps an enemy. All this ran through his mind as he stood looking at her and kept him silent. And when he had gathered himself together his mission suddenly appeared to him so extraordinary, so presumptuous, that he did not know how to explain it.
“You must be surprised to see me,” he said, hesitating. “I don’t know what you will think. You will understand I don’t mean any impertinence, Hester—or prying, or that sort of thing.”
“I am sure you will mean to be kind, Harry; but tell me quick—what is it?” she cried.
He sat down opposite, looking at her across the table. “It is only from myself—nobody’s idea but mine; so you need not mind. It is just this, Hester, in confidence. Do you know where Edward is? It sounds impertinent, I know, but I don’t mean it. He’s wanted so badly at the bank. If you could give me an address where I could telegraph to him? Don’t be vexed; it is only that I am so stupid about business. I can do nothing out of my own head.”
“Is anything going wrong?” she cried, her lips quivering, her whole frame vibrating, she thought, with the beating, which was almost visible, of her heart.
“Well, things are not very right, Hester. I don’t know how wrong they are. I’ve been kept out of it. Oh, I suppose that was quite natural, for I am not much good. But if I could but telegraph to him at once, and make sure of getting him back—”
“I think, Harry—I have heard—oh, I can’t tell you how! he is coming back tonight.”
“Are you quite sure? I know he’s expected, but then—So many things might happen. But if he knew how serious it was all looking—”
Her look as she sat gazing at him was so terrible that he never forgot it. He did not understand it then, nor did he ever after fully understand it. The colour had gone entirely out of her face; her eyes stared at him as out of two deep, wide caves. It was a look of wonder, of dismay, of guilt. “Is he wanted—so much?” she said. Her voice was no more than a whisper, and she gave a furtive glance at the door behind her as if she were afraid someone might hear.
“Oh, wanted—yes! but not enough to make you look like that. Hester, if I had thought you’d have felt it so! Good Lord, what can I do? I thought you might have told me his address. Don’t mind, dear,” cried the tenderhearted young man. “I’ve no right to call you dear, but I can’t help it. If it’s come to this, I’d do anything for him, Hester, for your sake.”
“Oh, never mind me, Harry—it is—nothing. I
