He wrote to Hilda that night, enclosing his letter to Heathcote at Florence. It seemed a wearily roundabout way of reaching Hilda, who might be in Scotland or in Scandinavia for all he knew; but it was his only way, and it was just possible that she might be with her brother, and receive his letter sooner than he dared hope. He wrote a few lines to Heathcote with the enclosure, telling him about Lady Valeria's engagement. "I suppose when they two are married our banns may be put up in Bodmin Church," he wrote; "unless Hilda has any other objection to me."
He counted the days, the hours almost, while he waited for a reply to his letter. He followed the letter in its journey, now over sea, and then over land—halted with it at Calais, went southward with it, skirted the Mediterranean, pierced the Alps, and then it was all darkness. Who could tell where the letter might have to go after it reached Florence?
"She may be hiding herself somewhere in England, and that wretched letter may have to travel all the way back again," he told himself ruefully.
He waited, and waited, and waited; bearing himself with a brave front before his pupils all the while, teaching them, botanising with them, boating, riding; shooting with them, and never once losing temper with them on account of his own trouble. But he was suffering an agony of impatience and suspense all the same, and one of the more thoughtful of his lads saw that he was paler than usual, and worn and haggard.
"You mustn't work with us if you are ill, Mr. Grahame," said the boy; "we'll get on with our work by ourselves for a bit."
"No, my dear boy, I'm not ill; I have not been sleeping very well lately—that's all. 'Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care.'"
"Yes, we can't get on without that beggar," answered the boy. "I know what it is to be awake all night with the toothache. I've often wondered that the nights should be so jolly short when one's asleep, and so jolly long when one's awake."
At breakfast a few days later one of the lads, the son of a brother officer of Bothwell's, looked up from the Evening Standard with an exclamation of surprise.
"Here's the widow of one of your old friends gone and got married, Mr. Grahame," he said. "'At Galbraith Church, N.B., Sir George Varney, Bart., of the Hop Poles, Maidstone, to Lady Valeria Harborough, of Galbraith Castle, Perthshire, and Fox Hill, Plymouth.' You saved the old General's life up at the hills, didn't you?" asked the boy. "I've heard my father talk about it."
"It wasn't worth talking about, Hector," answered Bothwell. "The General was a good friend to me, and I honour his memory."
