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"How do you know that?"
"How do I know it? How could I tell you if I didn't know it? Half an hour ago I met Percival in Downing Street, and he told me."
What little hope had been left within me took wings and flew away.
Percival was First Lord of the Admiralty. He would certainly know the truth.
"Government has had official news of it," went on the Major gloomily; "and with it a list of the fugitives."
"And Tom's name is amongst them?"
"Tom's name is amongst them."
There was a pause. Lennard had gone into the other room. Major Carlen rose, saying something about lunch waiting for him at his club.
"Mark you, Charles: if Tom takes it into that rattle-pate of his to worm his way back to these sh.o.r.es, there may be the devil to pay. I hope with all my heart Level won't hear of this. The disgrace has been a precious thorn to him from the first."
"Blanche knows nothing at all of the matter as yet. She thinks Tom is with his regiment in India. The last time I saw her in Paris, not long before Mr. Brightman's death, she asked me what could be the reason Tom did not write to her."
"Much better tell her, and get it over," spoke the Major. "I should, if I were Level. He is more careful of her than she deserves--silly chit!"
Major Carlen and his cloak swung out again, the clerks came back, and the day and its duties went on. I wrote to Lord Level; giving him the substance of what the Major had heard, and telling him that I thought there could be little fear of Tom Heriot's venturing back to England.
He could never be so reckless as to risk the danger.
Dinner over, I started for Mrs. Brightman's, and was admitted by the butler, who told me, in answer to my inquiry, that his mistress had been ill all day and had not come down. Tea waited on the drawing-room table, but no one was in the room. Presently Annabel entered.
"I am sorry you should have had the trouble to come, when perhaps you could not spare the time," she said. "Mamma is not well enough to see you."
"I was not busy to-night, Annabel. Perry has just told me your mamma has not been down to-day. Is her illness anything more than would be caused by these bad headaches? Do you fear anything serious?"
"Yes--no. I--I hope not."
Her voice and manner were excessively subdued, as if she could scarcely speak from fear of breaking down. She turned to the table, evidently to avoid my notice, and busied herself with the teacups.
"What is the matter, Annabel?"
"Nothing," she faintly answered, though her tears were even then falling. But I knew that some great trouble must be upon her.
"Is Mrs. Brightman vexed with you for having come up last night with that deed?"
"No; oh no! I told mamma about it this morning, and she said I had done quite right to take it up, but that I ought to have gone in the carriage."
"What, then, is causing you this grief?"
"You cannot expect me to be in very good spirits as yet," she replied: which was a decided evasion. "There are times--when I feel--the loss----"
She fairly broke down, and, sinking into a chair, cried bitterly and without concealment. I waited until she had become calmer.
"Annabel, my dear, sorrow for your loss is not all that disturbs your peace to-night. What else is there?"
"It is true that I have had something to vex me," she admitted after a pause. "But I cannot tell you about it."
"It is a momentary trouble, I hope; one that will pa.s.s away----"
"It will never pa.s.s away," she interrupted, with another burst of emotion. "It will be a weight and a grief upon me as long as life shall last. I almost wish I had died with my father, rather than have to live and bear it."
I took her hands in mine, and spoke deliberately. "If it be so serious a trouble as that, I must know it, Annabel."
"And if it were of a nature to be spoken of, you should know it. But it is not, and I can tell you nothing."
"Could you speak of it to your father, were he still living?"
"We should be compelled to speak of it, I fear. But----"
"Then, my dear, you can speak of it to me. From henceforth you must look upon me as in his place; your protector; your best friend: one who will share your cares, perhaps more closely than he could have done; who will strive to soothe them with a love that could not have been his. In a short time, Annabel, I shall ask you to give me the legal right to be and do this."
"It can never be," she replied, lifting her tearful eyes to mine.
I looked at her with an amused smile. I knew she loved me--and what other obstacle could exist? Mrs. Brightman might oppose it at first, but I did not despair of winning her over in the end.
"Not quite yet, I know," I answered her. "In a few months' time."
"Charles, you misunderstand me. I said it could never be. _Never._"
"I certainly do not understand that. Had your father lived, it would have been; and I do not say this without reason for the a.s.sertion. I believe that he would have given you to me, Annabel, heartily, with all his good will."
"Yes, that may be true; I think you are right; but----"
"But what, then? One word, Annabel: the objection would not surely come from your heart?"
"No, it would not," she softly answered, blus.h.i.+ng deeply. "Please do not speak of these things."
"I did not intend to speak of them so soon. But I wish to remind you that I do possess a right to share your troubles, of whatever nature those troubles may be. Come, my darling, tell me your grief."
"Indeed I cannot," she answered, "and you know I am not one to refuse anything from caprice. Let me go, Charles; I must make the tea."
I did let her go; but I bent over her first, without warning, and kissed her fervently.
"Oh, Charles!"
"As an earnest of a brother's love and care for you, Annabel, if you object for the present to the other," I whispered.
"Yes, yes; be a brother to me," she returned, with strange yearning.
"No other tie can now be ours."
"My love, it _shall_ be."
She rang for the urn, which Perry brought in, and then sat down to the table. I placed myself opposite to her and drew the dry toast towards me. "Mrs. Brightman prefers this, I believe; shall I prepare some for her?"