That evening baby told his mother that a man met him in the Park, who kissed him and looked sad, and said he had a little boy of his own.
"And he crunched me up with kisses, mover," concluded baby.
"Was this man a friend of yours, Esther?" queried Mrs. Wyndham.
"Yes, madam, a friend of mine, and of my father's. A gentleman with a very sorrowful story. I think it comforted him to kiss master baby."
Esther was a woman of acute observation. It seemed to her that if there was an individual on earth to be envied it was Valentine Wyndham. What matter though she thought herself a widow? Still she had won a love of a quality and depth which surely must satisfy the most exacting heart. Esther often said to herself that if she were Valentine she must surely rest content. As to her forgetting Wyndham that could surely, surely never be.
These were Esther's thoughts, always supposing the case to be her own; but she had not been many weeks in the house in Park-Lane before she began to open her eyes and to suspect that matters were otherwise with her young mistress. Valentine, although still a wife, supposed herself a widow. All the world thought her such. What more natural than that she should turn her thoughts once more to love. At the time of her supposed widowhood she was under twenty years of age. Why should she mourn for her young husband all her days? Surely there was somebody who considered that she ought not to mourn--somebody who came almost daily to the house, whom Mrs. Wyndham liked to talk to. For Esther noticed that her eyes were bright after Adrian Carr went away. She did not guess that their brightness was generally caused by the shedding of tears.
Esther began to feel very uncomfortable. Should she or should she not tell Wyndham of the danger which was threatening Valentine?
There came a Sunday when Mrs. Wyndham entered her nursery with a request.
"Nurse, my head aches dreadfully. I know you stipulated to have every Sunday afternoon to yourself, but if you could stay at home to-day I should be grateful."
No one could make requests more sweetly than Valentine, and Esther felt herself coloring up with the pain of refusing.
"I am very sorry, madam," she said in a low constrained voice; "but--but--my father will expect me. You know it was an understood thing, madam, that I was to see him once a week. You remember my telling you I am his only child."