“Only my mother.  Yesterday he told me to go straight home and tell her.  And I did.  Whether he’s told anybody, I don’t know.”

“Be sure he has not.  He would tell nobody before me, I think.  My advice, then, is to say nothing more until you hear from him, or me.”

“I shouldn’t, of course, Miss Ironsyde.”

“Good-bye,” said the other kindly.  “Be of good heart and be patient for a few hours longer.  It’s hard to ask you to be, but you’ll understand the wisdom.”

When Sabina had gone, Miss Ironsyde nibbled a hot cake and reflected deeply on an interview full of pain.  The story—­so fresh and terrific to the teller—­was older than the hills and presented no novel feature whatever to her who listened.  But in theory, Jenny Ironsyde entertained very positive views concerning the trite situation.  Whether she would be able to sustain them before her nephew remained to be seen.  She already began to fear.  She saw the dangers and traversed the arguments.  Though free from class prejudice, she recognised its weight in such a situation.  A break must mean Sabina’s social ruin; but would union mean ruin to Raymond?  And if the problem was reduced to that, what became of her theories?  She decided that since her theories were based in righteousness and justice, she must prefer his downfall to the woman’s.  For if, indeed, he fell as the result of a mistaken marriage, he would owe the fall to himself and his attitude after the event.  He need not fall.  A tendency to judge him hardly, however, drew Jenny up.  He had yet to be heard.

She went to her writing-desk and wrote him a letter directing him to see her on the following day without fail.  “It is exceedingly important, my dear boy,” she said, “and I shall expect you not later than ten o’clock to-morrow morning.”

CHAPTER XVI

AT CHILCOMBE

Meantime Raymond had kept his promise and devoted some hours to Estelle’s pleasure.  The girl was proud of such an event, anticipated it for many days and won great delight from it when it came.  She perceived, as they started, that her friend was perturbed and wondered dimly a moment as to what Sabina could have said to annoy him; but he appeared to recover quickly and was calm, cheerful and attentive to her chatter after they had gone a mile.

“To think you’ve never been to Chilcombe, Ray,” she said.  “You and father go galloping after foxes, or shooting the poor pheasants and partridges and don’t care a bit for the wonderful tiny church at Chilcombe—­the tiniest in England almost, I do believe.  And then there’s a beautiful thing in it—­a splendid treasure; and many people think it was a piece of one of the ships of the Spanish Armada, that was wrecked on the Chesil Bank; and I dare say it is.”

“You must tell me about it.”

“I’m going to.”

“Not walking too fast for you?”