Cynthia Wakeham's Money. Green Anna Katharine
Edgar was not their friend; it would be folly to speak his name to them. What then? Must he give up his hopes till time had paved the way to their realization? He feared it must be so, yet he recoiled from the delay. In this mood he re-entered Edgar's office.
A woman in hat and cloak met him.
"Are you the stranger lawyer that has come to town?" she asked.
He bowed, wondering if he was about to hear news of Harriet Smith.
"Then this note is for you," she declared, handing him a little three-cornered billet.
His heart gave a great leap, and he turned towards the window as he opened the note. Who could be writing letters to him of such dainty appearance as this? Not she, of course, and yet – He tore open the sheet, and read these words:
"If not asking too great a favor, may I request that you will call at my house, in your capacity of lawyer.
"As I do not leave my own home, you will pardon this informal method of requesting your services. The lawyer here cannot do my work.
He was too much struck with amazement and delight to answer the messenger at once. When he did so, his voice was very business-like.
"Will Miss Cavanagh be at liberty this morning?" he asked. "I shall be obliged to return to the city after dinner."
"She told me to say that any time would be convenient to her," was the answer.
"Then say to her that I will be at her door in half an hour."
The woman nodded, and turned.
"She lives on the road to the depot, where the two rows of poplars are," she suddenly declared, as she paused at the door.
"I know," he began, and blushed, for the woman had given him a quick glance of surprise. "I noticed the poplars," he explained.
She smiled as she passed out, and that made him crimson still more.
"Do I wear my heart on my sleeve?" he murmured to himself, in secret vexation. "If so, I must wrap it about with a decent cloak of reserve before I go into the presence of one who has such power to move it." And he was glad Edgar was not at home to mark his excitement.
The half hour wore away, and he stood on the rose-embowered porch. Would she come to the door herself, or would it be the sad-eyed sister he should see first? It mattered little. It was Hermione who had sent for him, and it was with Hermione he should talk. Was it his heart that was beating so loudly? He had scarcely answered the question, when the door opened, and the woman who had served as a messenger from Miss Cavanagh stood before him.
"Ah!" said she, "come in." And in another moment he was in the enchanted house.
A door stood open at his left, and into the room thus disclosed he was ceremoniously ushered.
"Miss Cavanagh will be down in a moment," said the woman, as she slowly walked away, with more than one lingering backward look.
He did not note this look, for his eyes were on the quaint old furniture and shadowy recesses of the staid best room, in which he stood an uneasy guest. For somehow he had imagined he would see the woman of his dreams in a place of cheer and sunshine; at a window, perhaps, where the roses looked in, or at least in a spot enlivened by some evidences of womanly handiwork and taste. But here all was stiff as at a funeral. The high black mantel-shelf was without clock or vase, and the only attempt at ornament to be seen within the four grim walls was an uncouth wreath, made of shells, on a background of dismal black, which hung between the windows. It was enough to rob any moment of its romance. And yet, if she should look fair here, what might he not expect of her beauty in more harmonious surroundings.
As he was adjusting his ideas to this thought, there came the sound of a step on the stair, and the next moment Hermione Cavanagh entered his presence.
VIII.
A SEARCH AND ITS RESULTS
Hermione Cavanagh, without the scar, would have been one of the handsomest of women. She was of the grand type, with height and a nobility of presence to which the extreme loveliness of her perfect features lent a harmonizing grace. Of a dazzling complexion, the hair which lay above her straight fine brows shone ebon-like in its lustre, while her eyes, strangely and softly blue, filled the gazer at first with surprise and then with delight as the varying emotions of her quick mind deepened them into a more perfect consonance with her hair, or softened them into something like the dewy freshness of heaven-born flowers. Her mouth was mobile, but the passions it expressed were not of the gentlest, whatever might be the language of her eyes, and so it was that her face was in a way a contradiction of itself, which made it a fascinating study to one who cared to watch it, or possessed sufficient understanding to read its subtle language. She was oddly dressed in a black, straight garment, eminently in keeping with the room; but there was taste displayed in the arrangement of her hair, and nothing could make her face anything but a revelation of beauty, unless it was the scar, and that Frank Etheridge did not see.
"Are you – " she began and paused, looking at him with such surprise that he felt his cheeks flush – "the lawyer who was in town a few days ago on some pressing inquiry?"
"I am," returned Frank, making her the low bow her embarrassment seemed to demand.
"Then you must excuse me," said she; "I thought you were an elderly man, like our own Mr. Hamilton. I should not have sent for you if – "
"If you had known I had no more experience," he suggested, with a smile, seeing her pause in some embarrassment.
She bowed; yet he knew that was not the way she would have ended the sentence if she had spoken her thought.
"Then I am to understand," said he, with a gentleness born of his great wish to be of service to her, "that you would prefer that I should send you an older adviser. I can do it, Miss Cavanagh."
"Thank you," she said, and stood hesitating, the slight flush on her cheek showing that she was engaged in some secret struggle. "I will tell you my difficulty," she pursued at last, raising her eyes with a frank look to his face. "Will you be seated?"
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