Dawn - H. Rider Haggard

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the assistance of a stout servant girl, who did all the odd jobs and a great deal of the work in the old-fashioned farmhouse in which she was staying. Presently the cowboy came whistling up the little garden, bright with crocuses and tulips, that lay in front of the house, and knocked at the front door.

      “Lawks!” said the stout girl, in accents of deep surprise, as she drew her head in from the open lattice; “Jim’s got a letter.”

      “Perhaps it is for me,” suggested Hilda, a little nervously; she had grown nervous about the post of late. “Will you go and see?”

      The letter was for her, in the handwriting of Mrs. Jacobs. She opened it; it contained another addressed in the character the sight of which made her feel sick and faint. She could not trust herself to read it in the presence of the girl.

      “Sally,” she said, “I feel rather faint; I shall lie down a little. I will ring for you presently.”

      Sally retired, and she opened her letter.

      Fifteen minutes after the girl received her summons. She found Hilda very pale, and with a curious look upon her face.

      “I hope you’re better, mum,” she said, for she was a kind-hearted girl.

      “Better—ah, yes! thank you, Sally; I am cured, quite cured; but please be quick with the things, for I shall leave by the nine o’clock train.”

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      The night of the dinner-party was a nearly sleepless one for Philip, although his father had so considerately regretted his wearied appearance, he could do nothing but walk, walk, walk, like some unquiet ghost, up and down his great, oak-panelled bedroom, till, about dawn, his legs gave way beneath him; and think, think, think, till his mind recoiled, confused and helpless, from the dead wall of its objects. And, out of all this walking and thinking, there emerged, after an hour of stupor, that it would be a misnomer to call sleep, two fixed results. The first of these was that he hated his father as a lost soul must hate its torturing demon, blindly, madly, impotently hated him; and the second, that he could no longer delay taking his wife into his confidence. Then he remembered the letter he had received from her on the previous morning. He got it, and saw that it bore no address, merely stating that she would be in London by midday on the first of May, that was on the morrow. Till then it was clear he must wait, and he was not sorry for the reprieve. His was not a pleasant story for a husband to have to tell.

      Fortunately for Philip, there was an engagement of long standing for this day, the thirtieth of April, to go, in conjunction with other persons, to effect a valuation of the fallows, &c., of a large tenant who was going out at Michaelmas. This prevented any call being made upon him to go and see Maria Lee, as, after the events of the previous evening, it might have been expected he would. He started early on this business, and did not return till late, so he saw nothing of his father that day.

      On the morning of the first of May he breakfasted about half-past eight, and then, without seeing his father, drove to Roxham to catch a train that got him up to London about twenty minutes to twelve. As he steamed slowly into Paddington Station, another train steamed out, and had he been careful to examine the occupants of the first-class carriages as they passed him in a slow procession, he might have seen something that would have interested him; but he was, not unnaturally, too much occupied with his own thoughts to allow of the indulgence of an idle curiosity. On the arrival of his train, he took a cab and drove without delay to the house in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and asked for Mrs. Roberts.

      “She isn’t back yet, sir,” was Mrs. Jacobs’ reply. “I got this note from her this morning to say that she would be here by twelve, but it’s twenty past now, so I suppose that she has missed the train or changed her mind; but there will be another in at three, so perhaps you had best wait for that, sir.”

      Philip was put out by this contretemps, but at the same time he was relieved to find that he had a space to breathe in before the inevitable and dreadful moment of exposure and infamy, for he had grown afraid of his wife.

      Three o’clock came in due course, but no Hilda. Philip was seriously disturbed; but there was now no train by which she could arrive that day, so he was forced to the conclusion that she had postponed her departure. There were now two things to be done, one to follow her down to where she was staying—for he had ascertained her address from Mrs. Jacobs; the other, to return home and come back on the morrow. For reasons which appeared to him imperative, but which need not be entered into here, he decided on the latter course; so leaving a note for his wife, he drove, in a very bad temper, back to Paddington in time to catch the five o’clock train to Roxham.

      Let us now return to the Abbey House, where, whilst Philip was cooling his heels in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, a rather curious scene was in progress.

      At one o’clock, old Mr. Caresfoot, as was his rule, sat down to lunch, which, frugal as it was, so far as he was concerned, was yet served with some old-fashioned ceremony by a butler and a footman. Just as the meal was coming to an end, a fly, with some luggage on it, drove up to the hall-door. The footman went to open it.

      “Simmons,” said the squire, to the old butler, “look out and tell me who that is.”

      Simmons did as he was bid, and replied:

      “I don’t rightly know, squire; but it’s a lady, and she be wonderful tall.”

      Just then the footman returned, and said that a lady, who would not give her name, wished to speak to him in private.

      “Are you sure the lady did not mean Mr. Philip?”

      “No, sir; she asked for Mr. Philip first, and when I told her that he was out, she asked for you, sir. I have shown her into the study.”

      “Humph! at any rate, she has come off a journey, and must be hungry. Set another place and ask her in here.”

      In another moment there was a rustle of a silk dress, and a lady, arrayed in a long cloak and with a thick veil on, was shown into the room. Mr. Caresfoot, rising with that courteous air for which he was remarkable, bowed and begged her to be seated, and then motioned to the servants to leave the room.

      “Madam, I am told that you wish to speak to me; might I ask whom I have the honour of addressing?”

      She, with a rapid motion, removed her hat and veil, and exposed her sternly beautiful face to his inquiring gaze.

      “Do you not know me, Mr. Caresfoot?” she said, in her foreign accent.

      “Surely, yes, you are the young lady who lived with Maria, Miss von Holtzhausen.”

      “That was my name; it is now Hilda Caresfoot. I am your son Philip’s wife.”

      As this astounding news broke upon his ears, her hearer’s face became a shifting study. Incredulity, wonder, fury, all swept across it, and then in a single second it seemed to freeze. Next moment he spoke with overpowering politeness.

      “So, madam; then I have to congratulate myself on the possession of a very lovely daughter-in-law.”

      A silence ensued that they were both too moved to break; at last, the old man said, in an altered tone:

      “We have much to talk of, and you must be tired. Take off your cloak, and eat whilst I think.”

      She obeyed him, and he saw that not only was she his son’s wife, but that she must before long present the world with an heir to the name of Caresfoot. This made him think the more; but meanwhile he continued to attend to her wants. She ate little, but calmly.

      “That woman has nerve,” said he to himself.

      Then he rang the bell, and bade Simmons wait till he had written a note.

      “Send

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