"Pleasure and business combined," said Falconer. "And it will be nice,
when the Buildings are as hot as--as a baker's oven, to think of Miss
Lorton strolling through the woods--there must be woods, of course--or
sitting with a book beside the stream--for equally, of course, there is
a stream."
"Get your fiddle and play us a 'Te Deum' for the occasion," said Dick
suddenly.
When Falconer had left the room, Nell told Dick of Lady Wolfer's visit.
"Oh!" he said, by no means delightedly. "And wants you to go and live
with her; or offered to make us an allowance, I suppose? At any rate, I
won't have anything of that kind, Nell," he added, with fraternal
despotism.
"You need not be afraid. I shall not go--there are reasons----" She
turned away to hide the sudden blush. "And I am as proud as you, Dick. I
should like to ask Mr. Falconer to come down to us at this place. He has
not been looking well lately."
Dick shook his head.
"No, poor beggar! I'm afraid he's in a bad way. Do you hear him cough at
night? It's worse than he pretends."
"Hush!" said Nell warningly, as the musician reëntered, his violin held
lovingly under his arm.
Soon the small room was filled with the strains of jubilant music--a "Te
Deum" of thanksgiving and rejoicing.
"That's for you," he said.
Then suddenly the tune changed to a sad yet delicious melody whose
sweetness thrilled through Nell, and made her think of Shorne Mills--and
Drake; and as he played on she turned her face away from him and to the
open window through which the wailing of the music floated, causing more
than one of the passers-by in the street beneath to pause and look up with
wistful eyes.
"And that is for me," said Falconer; "for me--and the rest of us--whom
you will leave behind. Good night." And with an abrupt nod he left the
room.
As a rule he played, in his own room, late into the night; but to-night
the piano and violin were silent, and he sat by the window looking at
the stars, in each of which he saw the beautiful face of the girl in the
room below.
"She doesn't even guess it," he murmured. "She will never know that I--I
love her. And that's all right; for though she wouldn't laugh at the
love of a pauper with one leg in the grave, she'd pity me, and I
couldn't stand that. She'd pity me and make herself unhappy over my--my
folly; and she's unhappy enough as it is. I wonder what it is? As I
watch her eyes, with that sad, wistful look in them, I feel that I would
give the world to know, and another world on top of it to be able to
help her. Sometimes I fancy that the look is a reflection of that in my
own eyes, and that would mean that she loved some one as I love her. Is
that the meaning? Is there some one of whom she is always thinking as I
think of her? The look was in her eyes while I was playing to-night; I
saw it as I have seen it so often."