"She will be wet through,"--he thought,--the tender smile that made his face so lovable playing softly round his lips--"But she will not mind that! She will laugh, and brush out her pretty hair all ruffled and wet with the rain,--her cheeks will be glowing with colour, and her lips will be as red as the cherries when they first begin to ripen,--her eyes will be bright with health and vitality,--and life- -young life--life full of joy and hope and brightness will radiate from her as the light radiates from the sun. And I shall bask in the luminance of her smile--I, cold and grey, like a burnt-out ember of perished possibilities,--I shall warm my chill soul at the sweet fire of her presence--I shall see her to-morrow!"
He went to the hearth and stirred the smouldering logs into a bright blaze. He was just about to ring for fresh fuel, when there came a sudden, alarmed knocking at the street door. Somewhat startled, he listened, his hand on the bell. He heard the light step of Hester the housemaid tripping along the passage quickly to answer the imperative summons,--there was a confused murmur of voices--and then a sudden cry of horror,--and a loud burst of sobbing.
"Whist--whist!--be quiet, be quiet!" said a hoarse trembling voice which it was difficult to recognise as Bainton's; "For the Lord's sake, don't make that noise, gel! Think o' Passon!--do'ee think o' Passon! We must break it to 'im gently like---" But the hysterical sobbing broke out again and drowned all utterance.
And still Walden stood, listening. A curious rigidity affected his nerves. Something had happened--but what? His dry lips refused to frame the question. All at once, he roused himself. With a couple of strides across his little study he threw open the door and went out into the passage. There stood Hester with her apron thrown over her head, weeping convulsively--while Bainton, leaning against the ivied porch entrance to ths house, was trembling like a woman in an ague fit.
"What's the matter?" said Walden, in a voice of almost peremptory loudness,--a voice that sounded harsh and wild on his own ears-- "What has happened?"
"Oh-oh--Oh-oh!" wailed Hester--"Oh, Mr. Walden, oh, sir, I can't tell you! I can't indeed!--it's about Miss Vancourt--oh--poor dear little lady!--oh-oh! I can't--I can't say it! I can't!"
"Don't ye try, my gel!"--said Bainton, gently--"You ain't fit for't,--don't ye try! Which I might a'known a woman's 'art couldn't abear it,--nor a man's neither!" Here he turned his pale face upon his master, and the slow tears began to trickle down his furrowed cheeks.