Seecombe already had his instructions.
If she was hungry, she must hold her hunger until the master of the house returned.
It gave me satisfaction to think of her sitting alone in the drawing room, dressed to the nines, full of self-importance, and no one to receive her.
I went on walking in the wind and rain.
Up the avenue to where the four roads met, and eastwards to the boundary of our land; then back through the woods again and northwards to the outlying farms, where I made a point of dallying and talking with the tenants, thus spacing out the time.
Across the park and over the westward hills, and home at last by the Barton, just as it grew dusk.
I was wet nearly to the skin but I did not care.
I opened the hall door and went into the house. I expected to see the signs of arrival, boxes and trunks, travel rugs and baskets; but all was as usual, there was nothing there.
A fire was burning in the library, but the room was empty.
In the dining room a place was laid for one.
I pulled the bell for Seecombe.
“Well?” I said.
He wore his newfound look of self-importance, and his voice was hushed.
“Madam has come,” he said.
“So I would suppose,” I answered, “it must be nearly seven.
Did she bring luggage?
What have you done with it?”
“Madam brought little of her own,” he said.
“The boxes and trunks belonged to Mr. Ambrose.
They have all been put in your old room, sir.”
“Oh,” I said.
I walked over to the fire and kicked a log.
I would not have him notice for the world that my hands were trembling.
“Where is Mrs. Ashley now?” I said.
“Madam has gone to her room, sir,” he said.
“She seemed tired, and she asked you to excuse her for dinner.
I had a tray taken up to her about an hour ago.”
His words came as a relief. Yet in a sense it was an anticlimax.
“What sort of journey did she have?” I asked.
“Wellington said the road after Liskeard was rough, sir,” he answered, “and it was blowing hard.
One of the horses cast a shoe, and they had to turn in at the smithy before Lostwithiel.”
“H’m.” I turned my back upon the fire and warmed my legs.
“You’re very wet, sir,” said Seecombe.
“Better change your things, or you’ll take cold.”
“I will directly,” I answered him, and then, glancing about the room,
“Where are the dogs?”
“I think they followed madam upstairs,” he said, “at least old Don did, I am not certain of the others.”
I went on warming my legs before the fire.
Seecombe still hovered by the door, as if expecting me to draw him in conversation.
“All right,” I said,
“I’ll bath and change.
Tell one of the boys to take up the hot water.
And I’ll dine in half an hour.”
I sat down that evening alone to my dinner before the newly polished candlesticks and the silver rose bowl.
Seecombe stood behind my chair, but we did not speak.
Silence must have been torture to him, on this night of nights, for I knew how much he longed to comment on the new arrival.
Well, he could bide his time, and then let forth to his heart’s content in the steward’s room.
Just as I finished dinner, John came into the room and whispered to him.
Seecombe came and bent over my shoulder.
“Madam has sent word that if you should wish to see her, when you have dined, she will be pleased to receive you,” he said.