CHAPTER VIII
Godfrey Pavely was standing in his private room at Pavely's Bank. It wasonly a little after ten, and he had not been in the room many minutes,yet already he had got up from his writing-table and moved over to themiddle one of the three windows overlooking the prim, exquisitely keptwalled garden, which even nowadays reminded him of his early childhood.He had gazed out of the window for a few moments, but now he stood withhis back to the window, staring unseeingly before him, a piece of notepaper crushed up in his hand.
For close on a hundred years his well-to-do careful-living forbears hadpassed their pleasant, uneventful lives in this spacious Georgian house,set in the centre of the wide High Street of the prosperous market townof Pewsbury.
What was now known as "Mr. Pavely's own room" had been the dining-roomof his grandparents. He himself had always known it as part of the Bank,but it still had some of the characteristics of a private living-room.Thus, on the dark green walls hung a number of quaint family portraits,his great-grandfather, his grandfather and grandmother, two uncles whohad died in youth, and a presentation portrait of his own father. Thesewere arranged about and above the mantelpiece, opposite the place wherestood his wide, leather-topped writing-table.
Taking up most of the wall opposite the windows was a bookcase ofreally distinguished beauty. Godfrey Pavely had been gratified to learn,some five or six years ago, that this piece of furniture was of veryconsiderable value, owing to the fact that it was supposed to have been,in a special sense, the work and design of Chippendale himself. But justnow, at this moment, he felt as if he hated the substantial old houseand everything in it.
He had come into this room, twenty minutes ago, to find the usual pileof open letters on the table. On the top of the pile was an unopenedenvelope marked _Private_, and it was the contents of that envelope thathe now held crushed up--not torn up--in his hand.
And as he stood there, staring before him unseeingly at the bookcase,there suddenly flashed into his mind a vision of the first time he hadbrought Laura here, to his own room at the Bank. They had only justbecame engaged, and he was still feeling an almost oppressive joy ofhaving compassed that which he had so steadfastly desired.
He could see her graceful figure walking through the mahogany door, hecould almost hear her exclaim, "What a charming room, Godfrey! I can'thelp wishing that we were going to live here, in Pewsbury!"
She had gone over and stood exactly where he was standing now, and thenshe had turned and gazed into the walled garden, at that time brilliantwith tulips and wallflowers. Coming round behind her, he had put hisarm, a little awkwardly, round her shoulders. At once she had slippedfrom beneath his grasp, but not unkindly--only with a gentle word thatat any moment some one might come in, and he, poor fool that he hadbeen, had admired her maidenly delicacy....
He glanced down at the piece of notepaper he held in his hand, and,smoothing it out, he read it through for the tenth or twelfth time.Then, as there came a knock at the door, he hastily thrust it into hispocket.
"Come in!" he cried impatiently; and his head clerk came into the room.
Mr. Privet had a delicate, refined, thoughtful face. He was very muchrespected in the town, and regarded as an important, integral part ofPavely's Bank. He was one of the very few people in the world who werereally attached to Godfrey Pavely, and he perceived at once that therewas something wrong.
"We promised to send over to Mr. Johnson to say when you would be readyto see him, sir. Shall I send over now?"
"Yes--no. Tell him I'll be ready in half an hour. And, Privet?"
"Yes, sir."
"I've a rather important letter to write. Will you see that I'm notdisturbed till I ring?"
The old man shut the door quietly, and Godfrey Pavely drew irresolutelytowards his writing-table, the table where he did so much hard, good,and profitable work each day.
But he did not sit down at once; instead, he took the letter he had beenso nearly caught reading out of his pocket, and once more he read itthrough--
"This is to warn you that there is a great deal of talk going on in Pewsbury and the surrounding neighbourhood about your wife and a certain gentleman who is a near neighbour of yours. It is well not to be jealous, but confidence may be carried too far. Try going home when you are not expected, and you will surely find them together.
"A WELL-WISHER TO THE "PAVELY FAMILY."
The words had been written, or rather printed, in ink, on a very commonsheet of notepaper--the kind of notepaper which is sold in penny packetsin every village and small sweetstuff shop in the kingdom.
Now in theory there is nothing easier than to despise and disregard ananonymous letter. But in practice such a missive as Godfrey Pavely hadjust received, however vulgar, and even, as in this case, obviouslywritten by a malicious person, invariably produces a horrible sensationof discomfort and acute uneasiness. For one thing, the fact that someunknown human being has devoted so much unwonted thought and spitefulinterest to one's private affairs is in itself an ugly revelation.
In theory again, most people, if asked what they would do if theyreceived an anonymous letter, would reply (1) that they would put itstraight in the fire, or (2) go straight with it to the police. But inpractice an anonymous letter, unless the recipient at once guesses withcertainty the identity of the writer, is the only clue to what maycontain the germ of some ugly plot, or conspiracy to harm or injure theinnocent. So it is surely foolish to destroy what may become evidence.As for going to the police, that is, for obvious reasons, the last thingany man would care to do if the anonymous communication deals with thecharacter of a woman near and dear to him. Indeed, the thought of goingto the police did not even enter Godfrey Pavely's mind, though it wasprobably the advice he would have given _to any one else_ who had cometo consult him about such a matter.
As he looked at the letter closely, turning it this way and that, hesuddenly told himself that it did not read like the work of anilliterate person. Godfrey, and Laura too, were in their different waysvery good employers; besides, they had not dismissed any one lately. No,no--it was far more likely to be some one living in Pewsbury, probablywith whom he was scarcely acquainted. There were, as the banker couldnot but be aware, a good many people in the little town who had reasonto dislike him--not personally perhaps, but as the one money-dealer ofthe place.
At last he sat down at his writing-table and drew an envelope towardshim. On it he wrote, "To be destroyed, unopened, in case of my death,"and then he placed the poisonous little sheet of common notepaper in theenvelope, and, fastening it down, put it in one of his inner pockets.
He intended to dismiss the whole thing from his mind, at any rate duringthis morning, but he found it very difficult, not to say impossible, todo that.
Laura and Oliver Tropenell? His thin lips curled at the thought.
Why, Oliver liked him, Godfrey, far better than he did Laura! Heregarded that as certain. And Laura? He could have laughed aloud at theabsurd suggestion. Laura was not only the coldest, she was also the mostupright, of women.
Early in their married life, when they had gone about together far morethan they had done recently, he, Godfrey, had never felt even a twingeof jealousy with regard to her. And yet--and yet in those days Laura hadcertainly excited a good deal of admiration. There are men whopassionately admire that kind of proud, passionless beauty in a woman.Pavely himself had once been such a man. So he knew.
He looked up from the letter he was writing, and all at once, to his ownsurprise, his thoughts took quite another turn. He told himself suddenlythat Tropenell's rather exceptional intimacy with them both might, afterall, excite remark, in such a damned censorious, gossiping place as wasPewsbury. He, Godfrey Pavely, was well aware of what a nest of gossip acountry town could be, and often is. He had experienced something of ityears ago, when there had been all that foolish talk concerning the thenKatty Fenton and himself. Once or twice he had felt slightly uneasy lesthis _present_ frien
dship with Katty should be misunderstood. Indeed, hehad felt this so strongly to give her what he had thought to be adelicate hint--a hint that she had at once taken--as to theinadvisability of her coming, when in Pewsbury, to see him in hisprivate room at the Bank. She had done that rather often at one time,when she was first his tenant at Rosedean. But now she never came to theBank. She did not even keep her account at Pavely's, though it wouldhave been a convenience to her to do so.
* * * * *
Mr. Johnson's call, which at any other time would have been a tiresomeinfliction, was welcome, for it enabled the banker to dismiss this odd,queer, unpleasant business of the anonymous letter from his mind for awhile.
But after Mr. Johnson had gone, the trouble came back, and themorning--what was left of it--seemed very long.
He asked himself whether, after all, it might not be wisest to speak ofthat absurd letter to some one. Should he say anything to Mrs.Tropenell, or well, yes--to Laura? But impatiently he shook his head atthe thought. Not only would such a thing shock and disgust his wife,but, what was of far more consequence to him, it might make her turnagainst Tropenell! Godfrey Pavely had been pleased and surprised at theway in which Laura had tolerated the other man being so much about thehouse. In Pavely's imagination Tropenell was _his_ friend--not Laura's.
He was glad when he heard a quarter to one chime out from the ParishChurch tower, for it meant that he could now get up and go across to theClub for luncheon. He put on his hat and went out into the square hallof the Bank.
As he did so, his head clerk came down the broad staircase.
Mr. Privet's room was only a little smaller, and a little less lackingin dignity, than that of Mr. Pavely himself--indeed, some people thoughtit a pleasanter room, for it looked out on to the High Street, and wason the first floor.
"If you'd been a minute earlier, sir," said the old man, smiling, "you'dhave seen Mrs. Pavely go by! I think she must have been in Mrs.Tropenell's motor, for Mr. Tropenell was driving her himself."
Godfrey Pavely felt a queer little pang of annoyance and surprise.
"I daresay they're still in the town," he said quickly. "I thought itquite possible that they might come in this morning."
But he had thought nothing of the kind.
Mr. Privet shook his head. "Oh no, sir! They were going home sureenough--and rather quickly, too. I thought the car _had_ caught thatyoungest Sherlock boy, but Mr. Tropenell's a skilful driver, and hemissed the child, but only by a few inches, as far as I could judge!"
Godfrey Pavely nodded, walked on, and so out and across the High Street.He could not help feeling a little vexed that Oliver and Laura shouldhave driven into Pewsbury--this morning, of all mornings. He wondered ifthey often did so. It was fortunate that nothing had happened to thatstupid child. It would have been very unpleasant for his wife to becompelled to give evidence at an inquest....
He did not enjoy his luncheon as much as he was wont to do. In a sensehe was king of the old-fashioned County Club; every member of it waseither on good terms with the prosperous banker, or desired to be so.But try as he might he could not get that odious, absurd, anonymousletter out of his mind! He told himself again and again that it wasthoughtless and--and yes, unbecoming--of Laura, to drive in and out ofPewsbury with Oliver Tropenell. Somehow it was the sort of thing hewould never have thought his wife was likely to do. Again he wonderedif she did it often. If yes, such conduct would of course provide amplereason for low, vulgar gossip.
When, at last, Godfrey Pavely walked back across to the Bank, he hadcome to the point of asking himself whether after all it might not bebest to say just a word of caution to Laura. It need not be more than aword--he knew her well enough to know that! She was the kind of woman toshrink with fastidious disgust from the thought of her name beingconnected, in any vulgar silly way, with that of a man.
But his mind swung backwards and forwards, like a pendulum. Thepossibility of his agreeable, cordial relations with Oliver Tropenellbeing in any way jarred or disturbed so upset him that, finally, he madeup his mind to say nothing to Laura.
At three o'clock the banker walked up to his head clerk's room. "I thinkI'll go home early to-day, Privet," he said.
The old man got up from his chair. He was not only fond, he was proudtoo, of his employer. Mr. Pavely was a model banker, a model worker. Henever went home before four, and often stayed on working till five.
"Very good, sir. It's a fine afternoon. I often wonder you stay as longas you do," he said, with that queer touch of affection in his voicewhich Godfrey Pavely valued perhaps more than he knew.
The walk home seemed much longer than usual. Two miles and a bit? He wasproud of the fact that he could do it with ease in five minutes over thehalf-hour. To-day, as a matter of fact, he walked so quickly that he didit in twenty-seven minutes, but he was not aware of that.
For the first time for months, he passed by Rosedean without as much asgiving Katty a thought, and he took a short cut into The Chase insteadof going on, up through the great park gates, as he was wont to do. Andthen, as he went along one of the paths in the walled kitchen garden, hesuddenly heard his wife's voice.
"I think that it would be best to have a mass of red and purple justhere. Last year we had blues."
He felt a queer, rather unreasoning, shock of relief, of satisfaction.Laura was evidently speaking to one of the gardeners.
Then, as he came round the corner, he saw that the person to whom Laurawas speaking was not a gardener, but Oliver Tropenell himself--Oliver,with a spud in his hand, kneeling before Laura, a basket of bulbs by hisside. He was looking up eagerly--a jealous onlooker might have saidardently--into her face. In fact, Tropenell looked, so Godfrey Pavelytold himself with some heat, "damned absurd." But before Godfrey cameright upon the three of them--for little Alice was flitting about behindher mother--Oliver stood up, with the words, "Then I'd better go and getthose other bulbs, hadn't I? Will you come too, Alice?"
Godfrey called out "Hullo! Doing some planting?" But his voice soundedodd to himself. Not so, however, to the others. Laura was honestlyunaware that Godfrey was very much earlier than his wont, or, if aware,she did not attach any importance to the fact. Still, she felt afraidthat Godfrey would interfere with her gardening scheme, and so she shookher head.
As for Oliver Tropenell, no one looking at his dark, set face could haveguessed his thoughts. As a matter of fact, he had heard Pavely'sfootsteps some moments before Pavely spoke. And he had wondered, withquick irritation, why he had come back from Pewsbury--or Rosedean--somuch earlier than usual.
Alice, dark-haired, rosy-cheeked, quite curiously unlike either herfather or her mother, was the only one of the four who was still happilyat ease. She ran up to her father: "Come and see _my_ garden, father!"she cried. "I'm growing some mustard and cress specially for you. Youcan take it to the Bank in an envelope and have some for your tea!"
The little girl was aware, deep in her sensitive, affectionate heart,that her father and mother were not quite like other fathers andmothers. They were not cosily loving together, as were the father andmother of the two little girls with whom she sometimes went to tea inPewsbury, neither were they on the happy terms of easy comradeship whicheven Alice knew was usual with other children's parents.
But she loved her mother with a passionate, unswerving, admiring love,and her father with a stout, proprietary affection. For his sake, andhis sake only, she would have liked to be a boy, for then, so she arguedsecretly within herself, she could be his office boy at the Bank. Up tonow she had felt for Oliver Tropenell the easy, unquestioning likingchildren give to one who comes and goes. But lately she had become dimlyaware that occasionally her mother and Mr. Tropenell were too busytalking together to take much heed of her, and this threw a littleshadow across her heart.
For Godfrey Pavely there followed days full of discomfort, unease, andrising annoyance. The whole course of his life was changed. As he cameand went about the quiet streets of his native
town, as he grantedbusiness interviews to the townspeople, he was perpetually askinghimself if the person he was speaking to was concerned with this odiousmatter, whether he or she was among those who took his beautiful wife'sname lightly.
His object each afternoon was now to get home early, and see for himselfwhat was going on there, and how far Laura was giving cause for low,vulgar gossip.
Laura was not a child! She must know, if she ever brought herself tothink of such a thing, that if a married woman allows a man to hangabout her, day after day, in the absence of her husband, there is sureto be talk. Pavely regarded Tropenell's share in the matter with astrange toleration--it was his wife whom he blamed with an increasingseverity as the minutes, the hours, and the days went by.
He still went to see Katty Winslow, but no longer as often as he hadbeen wont to do. And when in her company he was distrait, uncomfortable,longing to ask if _she_ thought Oliver's constant presence in his houseodd or--or peculiar. But he kept a prudent guard over his tongue. Oneday Katty said something which would have made it easy for him to speak,and which, as a matter of fact, very nearly did cause him to unburdenhis heart to her. It was a little word, and said quite pleasantly, with,he felt sure, no ulterior motive of any kind.
"It's odd," she said musingly, "to see what good friends Laura hasbecome with Oliver Tropenell! Who would have thought that she would everlike any man as much as she seems to like him? I suppose it's reallyowing to the fact that he's in partnership with her brother----"
She waited, and as he said nothing, she went on, with a smile, "Butthen, for the matter of that, you're just as fond of him as she is,aren't you? I can't see the attraction myself, but I admit that it mustbe there, for two people as unlike you and Laura are to each other bothto like him so much."
"Yes, I do like Tropenell," Godfrey spoke very decidedly. "But I can'tmake out why he gets on so well with Gilbert Baynton. Gillie couldn'trun straight if he tried."
"So I've always understood----"
Katty looked at him curiously. She had never been told the real story ofthe quarrel between the brothers-in-law, but she was clever enough tohave reached a very shrewd notion of the truth. Baynton, so much wasclear, had done something which Pavely could neither tolerate norforgive. In the old days, as a girl, Katty had met Gillie Bayntonseveral times, and he had struck her as a very amusing, agreeable sortof young man.
Godfrey had let slip this opportunity of saying anything, andafterwards, as is usually the case, he was glad that he had keptsilence. Clever and sympathetic as she was, Katty could do nothing tohelp him in this horrid, rather degrading business.
And then, walking into his room at the Bank one morning, he saw on thetop of the pile of his letters another common-looking envelope marked_Private_. He took it up with a sick feeling of half eager, halfshrinking, expectancy--
"A sincere well-wisher wishes once more to inform Mr. Pavely that all Pewsbury is discussing him and his private affairs. The lady and gentleman in question are more together than ever they were. The other day some one who met them walking together on the downs took them for an engaged couple."
This second anonymous letter greatly added to Godfrey Pavely'swretchedness and discomfort, all the more that it was so moderatelyworded. It seemed to confirm, to make certain, the fact of growinggossip and scandal.
At last something happened which to a small extent relieved the tension.Laura quietly informed him one evening that she much wished to go awayfor three days to see a friend of her childhood, who had written andbegged her to come, and to bring little Alice with her.
She was surprised at the eagerness with which Godfrey assented to herwish. In certain ways Godfrey Pavely, from the modern point of view, wasa tyrannical husband. He very much disliked Laura's paying visits byherself, and she had long ago given up even suggesting that she shoulddo so. Also, she on her side much disliked asking him the smallestfavour.
The day his wife left The Chase was the first happy day Godfrey had hadfor three weeks. He spent a pleasant hour with Katty; and on his arrivalhome his feeling of satisfaction was increased by a note from Mrs.Tropenell inviting him to come and spend at Freshley Manor the threenights Laura was to be away. He wrote accepting with more cordiality ofphrase than was his wont, even with so old a friend as was Oliver'smother.
Surely he and Oliver Tropenell, at last alone together, could combine toput an end to this foolish, vulgar gossip? It would be so much easier tospeak to and consult with Oliver in Laura's absence.
Once he had made up his mind to speak to the other man, Pavely was able,almost, to forget the whole hateful business. Still, he said nothingtill the second morning of his visit. Then, at breakfast, he made aproposal.
"I feel as if I'd like to take this afternoon off. Would you care for agood long walk, eh? We might start about half-past two, have tea inWitanbury, and be back here for dinner."
Oliver nodded. He was at once glad and sorry that Godfrey was soentirely unaware of the growing tide of dislike, nay of hatred, that hefelt for him. Secretive as he was by nature, and by the life he had nowled for so long, Oliver Tropenell was yet no hypocrite. He loathed thepart fate had forced on him, that of pretending a cordial friendship forthis man whom he so utterly despised. His mother had invited GodfreyPavely to stay with them for three nights without first telling Oliverthat she was thinking of doing so; and then, when she had realised, toolate, his annoyance, she could only explain that Godfrey had alwaysstayed with her on the very rare occasions when Laura had been away.
Mother and son were together when Godfrey started off on his daily walkinto Pewsbury.
"I wonder what he's going to talk to you about?" said Mrs. Tropenell alittle nervously. The thought of the coming afternoon expedition madeher vaguely uneasy.
"He's never at a loss for a word, though he very seldom says anythingworth hearing."
Oliver was looking with unhappy, frowning eyes after the other man'strim, rather jaunty figure.
All that morning Mrs. Tropenell watched her son with anxious fear. Hewandered restlessly in and out of the house, and though he nevermentioned Laura, his mother knew that he was missing her with an almostagonised sense of loss.
Oliver was fighting a losing battle with himself--a battle in which nohelp from outside could be of any avail. He no longer spoke of goingaway; instead, he had told his mother of his scheme for bringing Gillieto Europe, and of sending Laura and her brother off to Italy, for ahappy little holiday. She ventured to say that she thought that plan tobe quite out of the question. Godfrey would never allow it--he had notforgiven Gillie, in spite of the fact that Gillie had now "made good."
It was nearer three than half-past two, when the two men started out,and they had been walking for a full hour, with snatches of talk, andsuch comfortable intervals of silence as is possible only betweenintimates, when suddenly Godfrey Pavely stopped walking.
Surprised, Tropenell also came to a stand. They were on a stretch oflonely upland, with nothing save a couple of birds in sight.
"Look here, Oliver, there's something I want to say to you! I hope youwon't be offended. But we're such good friends, you and I, that I thinkyou'll understand."
The colour rushed into Oliver Tropenell's face. He turned and faced theother squarely, but he felt tense with excitement, and a sense ofchallenge. He knew, instinctively, that Pavely was going to saysomething about Laura--Laura, and perhaps Gillie, her brother.
"Yes," he said quietly. "Yes, Godfrey? What is it? I can't imagine yoursaying anything to me that would offend me."
"I want you to read what's inside that," said Godfrey in a low voice,and he handed Oliver an envelope.
Oliver was relieved, but he looked down at the envelope suspiciously.
"But this isn't to be opened till you're dead!" he exclaimed.
"Open it now," said Godfrey roughly, "I only put that in case I met withan accident--you'll see why I did it, in a moment."
With a queer feeling of misgiving Oliver Tropenell d
rew the commonlittle sheet of notepaper out of the envelope, and in silence read overwhat was written there in those deceitful, printed characters.
He read it once, twice--thrice. Then he handed the sheet of paper back,with a look of disgust and contempt on his dark face, to the manstanding by his side.
"Well!" he exclaimed. "I don't know what you expect me to say? If you'dhad as many anonymous letters as I've had in my time--they rain inMexico--you wouldn't give much thought to this kind of garbage!"
Holding out the letter as if it were something dirty, he handed it backto the other man.
"I haven't given much thought to it----" and then Godfrey stopped short.He felt as if some other man, and not his sober self, were uttering thelie.
"No," said Oliver quickly, "I don't suppose you have. But still, I can'thelp being rather sorry you kept it, and--and that you showed it to me.There's nothing to be done! I suppose it's the work of some clerk whomyou've dismissed in the last few weeks?"
"I've dismissed no one," said Pavely shortly. Somehow Tropenell was nottaking this disagreeable business quite as he had meant him to take it.
In a rather different voice Oliver went on: "Show me the letter again. Iwant to see if there's a date to it."
"It arrived exactly three weeks ago to-day," said Pavely slowly, "and itwas posted in Pewsbury."
Light broke in on Tropenell. This, then, was why Godfrey had taken tocoming home at such odd hours, and why he had telephoned several timesfrom the Bank, sending messages to Laura, and, on at least one occasion,a message to Tropenell himself!
He set his lips tightly together, and a flood of bitter wrath welled upfrom his heart.
"Then in my place you would do nothing?" asked Godfrey uncertainly.
More and more he was disappointed in the other's attitude. He hadthought Oliver would suggest something which might be useful, or at anyrate laugh the matter off.
But Oliver only looked grim--grim and angry.
"I don't see that you can do anything. It isn't the sort of thing aboutwhich you would care to go to the local police, and even if you knew whowrote that infamous scrawl I don't see how you could take action. Wecan't have Laura's name dragged into this kind of business."
Then he asked in a lower voice, "Have you said anything to her?"
The other shook his head. "I've no intention of saying anything toLaura. It would distress and disgust her very much."
He was glad to see that Oliver, hearing these words, looked very muchrelieved.
They walked on a few paces, and then Godfrey exclaimed, "There's onething I do think, Oliver--and I hope you won't be angry with me forsaying it! It must be admitted that you've been a great deal at TheChase alone with Laura, and also, unfortunately, that that sort of thingalways does make talk in a country town."
Tropenell turned on him sternly: "What sort of thing?" he asked. "Iswear before God that there has never been anything in my attitude toLaura which should give the slightest rise to comment, or afford thebasest scandalmonger excuse for a word."
And he believed every word of what he said.
"I know that--I know that, my dear fellow!" Godfrey put his hand out,and for a moment it lay heavily on his friend's shoulder.
But quickly, silently, Tropenell shook himself free of the other'stouch. "If you know that," he was breathing hard now, not trying todisguise his anger, "then why did you allude just now to the fact that Iam a good deal in your house? Does that mean you wish that I should giveup coming to The Chase?"
"No, of course I don't mean that! You're the one real friend I'vemade--well, since I got to man's estate," said Pavely ruefully.
Everything was going wrong. The conversation was taking a turn he hadnever thought of or conceived as possible. "What I mean is thatLaura----"
Tropenell stopped him with a passionate gesture: "Cannot we keep Laura'sname out of our discussion?"
Godfrey stared at him, genuinely astonished.
"How can we keep Laura's name out of our discussion? The whole thingcentres about Laura! This letter mentions Laura--ay, and I've hadanother letter, which I hadn't meant to show you, but which on secondthoughts I should like you to see."
He began fumbling in another pocket.
"I don't want to see it!" cried Oliver. "I'd rather not see it!"
"But I'd rather you saw it," said Godfrey obstinately.
Tropenell read the second anonymous letter through, and then handed itback, without comment.
Silently they both turned about, and walked quickly, in almost completesilence, back to Freshley. "We've come home to tea, after all, mother,"said Oliver shortly, "we are neither of us in condition for afifteen-mile walk."
Neither man referred again to the matter which when they were togetherfilled both their minds, and on the day of Laura's return to The Chase,Oliver Tropenell went up to town, without having seen her. Four dayslater his mother received a rather cryptic telegram: "Arriving to-nightwith a friend."
A friend? Some sure, sombre instinct told Mrs. Tropenell that this wouldbe Gillie Baynton.
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