Withdrawing from her side once more, I made a tour of the room. Nothing escaped my eyes; nothing was too small to engage my attention. But while I failed to see anything calculated to shake my confidence in the conclusions I had come to, I saw but little to confirm them. This was not strange; for, apart from a few toilet articles and some knitting-work on a shelf, she appeared to have no belongings; everything else in sight being manifestly the property of Miss Althorpe. Even the bureau drawers were empty, and her bag, found under a small table, had not so much in it as a hairpin, though I searched it inside and out for her rings, which I was positive she had with her, even if she dared not wear them.
When every spot was exhausted I sat down and began to brood over what lay before this poor being, whose flight and the great efforts she made at concealment proved only too conclusively the fatal part she had played in the crime for which her husband had been arrested. I had reached her arraignment before a magistrate, and was already imagining her face with the appeal in it which such an occasion would call forth, when there came a low knock at the door, and Miss Althorpe reentered.
She had just said good night to her lover, and her face recalled to me a time when my own cheek was round and my eye was bright and—Well! what is the use of dwelling on matters so long buried in oblivion! A maiden-woman, as independent as myself, need not envy any girl the doubtful blessing of a husband. I chose to be independent, and I am, and what more is there to be said about it? Pardon the digression.
“Is Miss Oliver any better?” asked Miss Althorpe; “and have you found—”
I put up my finger in warning. Of all things, it was most necessary that the sick woman should not know my real reason for being there.
“She is asleep,” I answered quietly, “and I think I have found out what is the matter with her.”
Miss Althorpe seemed to understand. She cast a look of solicitude towards the bed and then turned towards me.
“I cannot rest,” said she, “and will sit with you for a little while, if you don’t mind.”
I felt the implied compliment keenly.
“You can do me no greater favor,” I returned.
She drew up an easy-chair. “That is for you,” she smiled, and sat down in a little low rocker at my side.
But she did not talk. Her thoughts seemed to have recurred to some very near and sweet memory, for she smiled softly to herself and looked so deeply happy that I could not resist saying:
“These are delightful days for you, Miss Althorpe.”
She sighed softly—how much a sigh can reveal!—and looked up at me brightly. I think she was glad I spoke. Even such reserved natures as hers have their moments of weakness, and she had no mother or sister to appeal to.
“Yes,” she replied, “I am very happy; happier than most girls are, I think, just before marriage. It is such a revelation to me—this devotion and admiration from one I love. I have had so little of it in my life. My father—”
She stopped; I knew why she stopped. I gave her a look of encouragement.
“People have always been anxious for my happiness, and have warned me against matrimony since I was old enough to know the difference between poverty and wealth. Before I was out of short dresses I was warned against fortune-seekers. It was not good advice; it has stood in the way of my happiness all my life, made me distrustful and unnaturally reserved. But now—ah, Miss Butterworth, Mr. Stone is so estimable a man, so brilliant and so universally admired, that all my doubts of manly worth and disinterestedness have disappeared as if by magic. I trust him implicitly, and—Do I talk too freely? Do you object to such confidences as these?”
“On the contrary,” I answered. I liked Miss Althorpe so much and agreed with her so thoroughly in her opinion of this man, that it was a real pleasure to me to hear her speak so unreservedly.
“We are not a foolish couple,” she went on, warming with the charm of her topic till she looked beautiful in the half light thrown upon her by the shaded lamp. “We are interested in people and things, and get half our delight from the perfect congeniality of our natures. Mr. Stone has given up his club and all his bachelor pursuits since he knew me, and—”
O love, if at any time in my life I have despised thee, I did not despise thee then! The look with which she finished this sentence would have moved a cynic.
“Forgive me,” she prayed. “It is the first time I have poured out my heart to anyone of my own sex. It must sound strange to you, but it seemed natural while I was doing it, for you looked as if you could understand.”
This to me, to me, Amelia Butterworth, of whom men have said I had no more sentiment than a wooden image. I looked my appreciation, and she, blushing slightly, whispered in a delicious tone of mingled shyness and pride:
“Only two weeks now, and I shall have someone to stand between me and the world. You have never needed anyone, Miss Butterworth, for you do not fear the world, but it awes and troubles me, and my whole heart glows with the thought that I shall be no longer alone in my sorrows or my joys, my perplexities or my doubts. Am I to blame for anticipating this with so much happiness?”
I sighed. It was
