“And who knows but they may come again?” said Anthony Cardew.

We were in the inner drawing-room by this time, and as it happened there was a picture of Theobald as a little boy sitting on his pony, above the fireplace.

A memory came back to me, out of the mists of childhood, of Theobald sitting astride the little shaggy pony.  I had quite forgotten it, but now I remembered even the pony’s name, which was Orson.  And there was a distracted person in a velvet coat, who must have been the artist; and he implored Theobald to keep still, for he would touch up Orson and set him prancing.  It was on the lawn near the yew-hedge, and I was standing by my grandmother, while Theobald on the pony was on the gravel-sweep.  I knew that he made the pony curvet because I liked it; and presently my grandmother discovered that and took me away.

“Sure, the fine days will come back,” the old woman assented hopefully, “and there’s the bonny boy’ll bring them.  Miss Bawn, dear, when is Master Theobald coming home from the wars to marry you?  Weren’t you promised from the cradle?  Sure, old as I am, I’ll dance at the wedding.”

To my vexation I felt the colour rush to my face and I was conscious that Captain Cardew was looking at me in a startled way.

I tried to say something to the effect that it was an arrangement which we should probably never desire to carry out, but, forcing myself to look at Captain Cardew, I was silenced by the cold and stern expression of his face.

I saw him go up and examine the portrait, and then turn away.  I looked at him piteously.  In spite of old Bridget’s presence I had almost courage to put my hand in his and say to him that he was the only man on earth for me.

But he was holding the door open now for Bridget and me to pass through and he would not meet my eyes.  And the old woman was begging me to be seated awhile till she made me a cup of tea and was inviting him similarly.  He refused, saying he had business elsewhere.  And then he took my hand and lifted it coldly to his lips; and shaking old Bridget by the hand he was gone.

As the door slammed behind him, again the cold chill of the house struck me for the sunshine had gone with him.  I realized my own unreadiness too late, and I could have followed him, calling out to him till he should turn round and come back and hear me tell him that it was all foolishness about Theobald and I loved only him.  Indeed, I got so far as to run out to the postern gate and look down the street.

But it was as lifeless as when I had come in.  There was only my cab, and the driver dozing on the box and the patient horse standing quietly between the shafts to break the dead monotony of the lines of black houses.

CHAPTER XVIII.

FLIGHT

I drank Bridget’s strong, sweet tea without protest, and ate the thin bread and butter, feeling it taste like sawdust in my mouth.