Chapter 80
She did not answer, she did not lift her eyes; but the faintest possible smile parted her rosy lips--a smile which seemed to express a consciousness that perhaps that time might come. And Henry, shy and sensitive, stood apart and gazed upon her, his heart beating.
"Young lady," said William, advancing, "do you know that a special honour has been a.s.signed me to-night? One that concerns you."
Anna raised her eyes now. She felt as much at ease with William as she did with her father or Patience. "What dost thee say, William? An honour?"
"That of seeing you safely home. I----"
"What's that for?" interrupted Anna. "Where's my father?"
"He is not at home this evening. And Patience did not care to send out Grace. I'll take care of you."
William could not but observe the sudden flush, the glow of pleasure, or what looked like pleasure, that overspread Anna's countenance at the information. "What's that for?" he thought, echoing her recent words.
But Mary began to sing again, and his attention was diverted.
Ten o'clock was the signal for departure. As they were going out--William, Anna, and Herbert Dare, who took the opportunity to leave with them--Henry Ashley limped after them, and drew William aside in the hall.
"Honour bright, mind, my friend!"
William did not understand. "Honour bright, always," said he. "But what do you mean?"
"You'll not get making love to her on your way home!"
William could not help laughing. He turned his amused face full on Henry. "Be at rest. I would not care to make love to her, had I full leave and license from the Quaker society, granted me in public meeting."
"Do you think I did not see her brightened countenance when you told her she was to go home with you?" retorted Henry.
"I saw it too. I conclude she was pleased that her father was not coming for her, little undutiful thing! However it may have been, rely upon it that brightening was not for me."
Pressing his hand warmly, with a pressure that no false friend ever gave, William hastened away. It was time. Herbert Dare and Anna had not waited for him, but were ever so far ahead.
"Very polite of you!" cried William, when he caught them up. "Anna, had you gone pitching into that part of the path they are mending, I should have been responsible, you know. You might have waited for me."
He spoke good-humouredly, making a joke of it. Herbert Dare did not appear to receive it as one. He retorted haughtily.
"Do you suppose I am not capable of taking care of Miss Lynn? As much so as you, at any rate."
"Possibly," coolly returned William, not losing his good-humoured tone.
Herbert Dare had given Anna his arm. William walked near her on the other side. Thus they reached Mr. Lynn's.
"Good night," said Herbert, shaking hands with her. "Good night to you, Halliburton."
"Good night," replied William.
Herbert Dare set off running. William knocked at the door and waited
Frank and Gar were putting up their books for the night when William entered. The boarders had gone to bed. Jane, a very unusual thing for her, was sitting by the fire, doing nothing.
"Am I not idle, William?" she said.
William bent to kiss her. "There's no need for you to be anything but idle now, mother."
"No need! William, you know better. There's great need that none should be idle: none in the world. But I have a bad headache to-night."
"William," called out Gar, "they brought this round for you from East's.
Young Tom came with it."
It was the case of fossils and the microscope. William observed that they need not have sent them, as he should want them there the next evening. "Patience said she had not had time to use the microscope," he continued. "I think I will take it in to her. I suppose she has been buying linen, and wants to see if the threads are even."
"The Lynns will have gone to bed by this time," said Jane.
"Not to-night. I have only just seen Anna home from Mrs. Ashley's; and Mr. Lynn has gone out to supper."
He turned to leave the room with the microscope, but Gar was looking at the fossils and asked the loan of it. A few minutes, and William finally went out.
Patience came to the door, in answer to his knock. She thanked him for the microscope and stood a minute or two chatting. Patience was fond of a gossip; there was no denying it.
"Will thee not walk in?"
"Not now," he said, turning away. "Good night, Patience."
"Good night to thee. Thee send in Anna, please. She is having a pretty long talk with thy mother."
William was at a loss. "I saw Anna in from Mr. Ashley's."
"She did but ask whether her father was home, and then ran through the house," replied Patience. "She had a message for thy mother, she said, from Margaret Ashley."
"Mrs. Ashley does not send messages to my mother," returned William, in some wonder. "They have no acquaintance with each other--beyond a bow, in pa.s.sing."
"She must have sent her one to-night--why else should the child go in to deliver it?" persisted Patience. "Not but that Anna is always running into thy house at nights. I fear she must trouble thy mother at her cla.s.s."
"She never stays long enough for that," replied William. "When she does come in--and it is not often--she just opens the door; 'How dost thee, friend Jane Halliburton?' and out again."
"Then thee can know nothing about it, William. I tell thee she never stays less than an hour, and she is always there. I say to her that one of these evenings thy mother may likely be hinting to her that her room will be more acceptable than her company. Thee send her home now, please."
William turned away. Curious thoughts were pa.s.sing through his mind.
That Anna did not go in, in the frequent manner Patience intimated; that she rarely stayed above a minute or two, he knew. He knew--at least, he felt perfectly sure--that Anna was not at his house now; had not been there. And yet Patience said "Send her home."
"Has Anna been here?" he asked when he went in.
"Anna? No."
Not just that moment, to draw observation, but presently, William left the room, and went into the garden at the back. A very unpleasant suspicion had arisen in his mind. It might not have occurred to him, but for certain glances which he had observed pa.s.s that evening between Herbert Dare and Anna--glances of confidence--as if they had a private mutual understanding on some point or other. He had not understood them then: he very much feared he was about to understand them now.
Opening the gate leading to the field at the back, commonly called Atterly's Field, he looked cautiously around. For a moment or two he could see nothing. The hedge was thick on either side, and no living being appeared to be beneath its shade. But he saw farther when his eyes became accustomed to the obscurity.
Pacing slowly together, were Herbert Dare and Anna. Now moving on, a few steps; now pausing to converse more at ease. William drew a deep breath.
He saw quite enough to be sure this was not the first time they had so paced together: and thought after thought crowded on his mind; one idea, one remembrance chasing another.
Was this the explanation of the plaid cloak, which had paraded stealthily on that very field-path during the past winter? There could not be a doubt of it. And was it in this manner that Anna's flying absences from home were spent--absences which she, in her unpardonable deceit, had accounted for to Patience by saying that she was with Mrs.