CHAPTER XI.
“MEET ME BY MOONLIGHT ALONE.”
In the meantime, Sir Reginald was walking rapidly in the direction of the Summers’ cottage. He reached the wood, which was thickly planted, and covered about an acre of ground. Spruce and fir made it dusky even in the daytime, and now in the twilight it was almost pitch-dark. Vaulting over the stile, he followed a path till he came to another stile, near which was the cottage, as Geoffrey had described.
“I’ve come far enough,” he said to himself, “and whilst I wait I’ll have a smoke.” So, leaning against a tree, he struck a light, and lit at least his sixth cigar that day. After five minutes or so he saw the cottage door open, and a white dog and a slender white figure emerge, both of which started off at a brisk run across the field, Alice collapsing to a sober walk as she neared the plantation. Stepping lightly over the stile, she advanced cautiously through the gloom, but descrying the spark at the end of her husband’s cheroot, she exclaimed, as she sprang towards him and seized his arm:
“Oh, Geoff! you good boy, I was half afraid you would not come. I never was more glad to see you—I do so hate this lonely dark wood. They say a murder was committed here years ago,” she added, drawing closer to him and shuddering. “Come, we must be quick,” she chattered on; “I shall get into dreadful hot water, I am so late, and I am so tired I can hardly crawl. Not that I mind, only Helen makes such a fuss if she sees me looking pale and sleepy. Why don’t you speak, you lazy fellow? you are always smoking. Who would think you had such an arm,” pinching him; “it’s like a blacksmith’s; the muscles feel as if they would burst the sleeve of your coat. I shall have no compunction in leaning pretty heavily, I can tell you.”
“Are you dumb, Geoffrey; or are you in the sulks?”
A sudden idea struck her. It was not Geoffrey after all; perhaps—agonising thought!—it was some utter stranger whom she had thus cavalierly appropriated.
“What have I done?” she cried, horror-struck, and endeavouring to release her hand. “Please let me go, whoever you are,” she pleaded piteously.
By this time they were close to the road, and by the light of the newly-risen moon she saw her husband, and stood aghast.
“Geoffrey was, or said he was, too lazy to come,” he remarked, helping her over the stile, “so I came as his substitute. I daresay you will find my arm quite as efficient a support,” coolly replacing her hand.
“Oh, but indeed,” struggling to withdraw it, and struggling in vain, “I never dreamt it was you, or I would not—I would not——”
“Have taken such a liberty,” he interrupted. “No, I daresay not.”
“There is no necessity to show me such politeness now,” she exclaimed hotly; “it is only in public, as you said yourself, that you are to pay me any attention. Let my hand go, please; I can walk very well without any assistance.”
“Nevertheless, as you admitted just now that you were tired, you will have to do violence to your feelings for once and accept my arm, much as you dislike it; and if the high road is not a public place, I should like to know what is. Why did you not defer this visit till to-morrow? No wonder you are tired, after playing lawn-tennis all the afternoon. What can have possessed you to take such a walk?” he asked, slackening his pace.
“I could not have slept,” she rejoined, “if I had not, for I had not been to see Lucy for a week, and my conscience was telling me I had neglected her.”
“Oh then you have a conscience?” he observed gravely.
“Of course I have. What an odd question! Why do you ask?”
“Mere idle curiosity. Who is this Lucy Summers you have been to see?”
“A girl who is very ill; she thinks so much of my visits, poor thing; but she does me far more good than I have it in my power to do her. She is truly fit for heaven, if anyone can be so.”
“She is dying, is she not?”
“Yes, of consumption; and she is only my age. If I were like her I should be glad to go—only for Maurice.”
A long and truly eloquent silence, lasting for fully a quarter of a mile. Alice thought of the last time they had walked together arm-in-arm up and down the long gallery at Looton, the evening before he had started for Cannes. What an age it seemed since then! What changes had occurred! He was more changed than all else, she felt, as she stole a glance at him. His clear-cut profile looked coldly severe in the moonlight, his eyes were fixed on the horizon, and his thoughts seemed at least a thousand miles away. The moon, which had risen behind the park trees, was now sailing proudly overhead, and looked down full-faced on this strangely-silent couple.
The rattle of an approaching dog-cart and the sound of a horse’s hoofs aroused them from their reflections.
Two young men in evening dress, evidently going out to dinner. They favoured Alice with a hard stare, and Reginald with a knowing look, as they dashed past.
“Pretty girl!” and “Lucky dog!” was borne upon the breeze as they rounded a corner, leaving behind them a cloud of dust.
As Alice put up her hand to ward off a volume of it, her wedding-ring glittered in the moonlight, and, for the first time, caught her husband’s eye.
“So you have replaced your wedding-ring, I see,” he observed, as they entered the avenue-gates.
“I have,” she replied in a low voice.
“What an interesting ceremony it must have been,” he remarked sarcastically.
“What do you mean?” asked Alice, gazing up at him with unrestrained astonishment.
“Did you swear to love, honour, and obey Alice Fairfax? I have often heard of people being wedded to self, but such an utterly barefaced proceeding as yours I never met with before.”
Alice had never thoroughly realised till now how bitterly he had resented her treatment of his wedding-ring.
“Where is my own ring?” she asked with a reckless boldness that surprised herself.
“I wear it on my watch-chain.”
“Will you ever give it back to me?” she inquired, more and more amazed at her own audacity.
He paused and stood still for a moment, and eyeing his wife with cool unspeakable amazement, said:
“Will I give you back your wedding-ring? When you deserve it I may; but,” he added slowly and impressively, “as far as I can judge at present, that will never be.”
He felt her little hand tremble on his arm, he saw her lips quiver, a mist come over her deep-fringed eyes. Seized with sudden compunction, he said:
“I am afraid I am always giving you rude brusque answers, but you brought this on yourself. The past three years have not been calculated to improve a man’s temper, have they?”
She looked up.
“You know you don’t deserve your wedding-ring, do you?” said he, taking her hand. “Do you?” he added pertinaciously.
“I suppose not,” faltered Alice, gulping down her tears with a painful effort.
“You suppose not!” he echoed impatiently. “Well, I am very certain you don’t; and the ring is likely to remain in my keeping.”
By this time they had reached the hall door-steps, where Geoffrey, in full evening dress and the usual flower in his button-hole, was awaiting them.
“At last!” he exclaimed. “So you have really come home. Well, you did not hurry yourselves,” he said, escorting them into the hall. “We began to think you had eloped—gone off together into some elegant retirement in the style of a second honeymoon.”
“Geoffrey!” cried Alice, in an agony of blushes.
“Don’t ‘Geoffrey’ me, my good girl, but go and get ready for dinner as quickly as you can; I’m starving.”
END OF VOL. II.
CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS CRYSTAL PALACE PRESS.