Calderon stopped abruptly in the middle of that long road across the
moor. Something had caught his eye as he walked—the slightest possible
glitter at the side of the road, where the heavy sunlight was making even
the stones throw tiny, dense shadows. He went back a step, intent upon
discovering what it was that had disturbed his casual glance. There,
half raised by a small mound of hardened dust, was a ring, a plain silver
ring, the sight of which struck him as a dagger might have done. As he
picked it gently from the roadway, and dusted it with his handkerchief,
his fingers trembled. It was his wife’s ring. He had given it to her
before their marriage, a memento of an exquisitely happy day. All the
time they had been together she had worn it constantly: there had never
been a time when she had not borne it upon her finger. The ring was full
of memories for him—of memories that were painful now in their happiness
because they belonged to a broken time. And these memories pressed upon
his heart, stabbing him, as he stood thoughtfully in the roadway among
the purple heather, gazing at the ring. His face had grown quite gray
and hard, and his eyes were troubled.
For a moment he could do nothing but gaze at the ring, busy with his
urgent thoughts. He could not yet wonder how the ring had come there,
upon this lonely road from dale to dale. Behind him the road was white,
narrowing through the heather, unshadowed by any tree. To right and left
of him the moor stretched in purple masses until it darkened at the sky
line. In front, the road began already to decline for the steep descent
into Wensleydale. The grass could be seen ahead of him; and beyond it,
far in the burning mist of the late afternoon, he saw gleaming, like
quicksilver, a sheet of water. The wind came at that great height in
powerful gusts, freshening the air, pressing warmly against his face and
hands as pleasantly as water presses against the swimmer. No other
person was in sight upon the moor: he was alone, with Evelyn’s ring in
his hand, and poignant memories assailing him.
Calderon’s love for his wife had been as intense and as true as any love
could be. Her love for him, more capricious, more ardent, had been as
great. Yet in the fifth year of their marriage, such was the conflict of
two strong personalities, they had quarreled vehemently, and had parted.
Both had independent means, and both had many activities. Calderon had
been working very hard for two years since the quarrel, and they had not
met. The two or three letters exchanged early in their estrangement had
never suggested a continued correspondence; and although he knew that his
wife had been living in the eastern counties, Calderon had now no idea at
all of her whereabouts. How strange that he should find upon this lonely
road that precious ring! Engraved within it he read: “Evelyn:
Maurice”—the inscription she had desired. Calderon sighed, slipping the
ring into his pocket, and thoughtfully continuing upon his way. Was
Evelyn before him, or behind him? Who could tell? They had never been
together to Yorkshire. He most go as a blind man.
Then the question came to him: if they met, what had he to say to her?
He knew no more of his journey down into Wensleydale, for the passionate
unreasonings that overwhelmed him.
And then, when he was arrived in the little village to which the road
over the moor leads, he again hesitated. So much depended upon his
action. He must find Evelyn this evening, for his return to London was
urgent. Already the shadows were growing long, and the evening was
heavy. Which way should he go? Upon his choice might depend the whole
course of his future life. For a few moments he halted, irresolute.
Then he went slowly forward to the first inn he saw, his fingers playing
in his waistcoat pocket with the little ring that had suddenly plunged
him into the past. He thought it certain that the loss of it was
accidental. She would not have kept the ring for so long, and she could
not have brought it with her to Yorkshire, if she had intended to throw
it away forever. And yet how came it upon the moorland road?
Calderon stopped outside the comfortable inn. It attracted him; but, as
though he had put some kind of reliance upon telepathy, he felt sure that
Evelyn was not there. Should he enter, make inquiry? No; he knew she
was not there. His steps led him forward. As if he were trying to
follow some invisible thread, he went onward, pausing no more, through
the village, over to the other side of the dale, marveling at the heavy
outline of Mount Caburn, silhouetted against the sky. He found himself
upon a good road, with hedges on both sides. It was an adventure. He
was following the bidding of his instinct. He did not really believe in
it, Calderon told himself; it was too silly. There would be a
disappointment, a sense of having been “sold”; and the morning would find
him unsatisfied, with his single opportunity gone. Yet even while his
thoughts poured doubt upon his action he was pursuing his way at a
regular pace. How curious it was! It was as though there were two
Calderons—one brain, the other overmastering instinct.
“You’ll see,” he warned himself. “Nothing will happen. You’ll have an
uncomfortable night, and a trudge back in the morning. It’s no good. No
good!”
Yet he continued upon his way beside the silent hedges, his knapsack upon
his shoulder, his arms swinging, and the silver ring hidden in his
waistcoat pocket.
It was quite dark when he reached Bainbridge. He knew well the aspect of
the open common, because he had passed through it a dozen years before,
and the place is unforgettable. There was a large green, he remembered,
and the houses hedged the green, as they did at East Witton. He smiled
at the memory and at the comparison. Yorkshire held such variety of
scene, from east to west, that he could pick from among old associations
a pleasant thought of every part of it. And here at Bainbridge he knew
there was an old inn, quiet and spacious, where he might find Evelyn.
She was not one to seek the smaller inns such as he would himself have
chosen: she would endure the discomforts of loquacious companionship
rather than those of primitive bathing arrangements. Had it not, then,
been instinct which had led him here? Had it perhaps been a subconscious
guessing at her inclinations? Calderon could not discuss that now. He
was here; it was too late to go farther; he must endure whatever
disappointment might be in store for him.
A bedroom was available; he was supplied with hot water, and he groomed
himself as well as his small store of belongings allowed. Whimsically he
foresaw a number of women in semi-evening dress, one or two men in
suitably dark clothes, himself the only palpable “tourist.” There would
be a solitary meal, as dinner time was past; and he would then seek among
the company the owner of the silver ring. Calderon found himself
laughing rather excitedly, even trembling slightly. Well, he would see
what happened. He ventured down the stairs, nervously grinning at the
thought that Evelyn might appear from any one of the doors along that
silent passage.
When he reached the foot of the stairs he went instinctively to the door,
to watch the two or three faint, sudden lights that started across the
green out of a general blackness. It was a very dark night; clouds had
come swiftly from the southwest, and the sky was entirely hidden. There
was a wind, and he thought that as soon as it dropped the rain might
begin to patter.
And then, while he was thus prophesying the weather, Calderon was held to
the spot by a new sensation. Within, from some room which he had not
entered, came an unknown voice, singing. The voice was sweet, but he did
not listen; only the air that was sung made him follow the voice, words
forming in his mind, as though he were himself singing:
“The little silver ring that once you gave to me
Keeps in its narrow band every promise of ours. . . . ”
Surely he was dreaming! He could not move. The clouds hurried; the
darkness enwrapped him. He could not smile at a coincidence, because he
could not believe that the song was really being sung. It was too much
for him to take in. If Evelyn were there, what could she be feeling,
thinking? Calderon was a very honest man, and was considered generally a
very cool, unsentimental one; but he was easily moved by the one love of
his life. Evelyn was the only woman for him; they were parted; he had
found a ring which held just such associations, “memories of the past,”
as the song pictured. The ring was more than a ring. It was not merely
an ornament; it was the material sign of their love. Calderon was deeply
stirred.
Even as he stood there, not daring to move, he felt that he was not
alone. Another figure, a woman’s, stood in the doorway. He could see
her light dress, the whiteness of her neck; and he found himself
breathless, suffocated by the sudden dénouement to his dream.
“Evelyn!” he whispered, moving at last.
There was a quick recoil. For a moment it seemed to Calderon that
everything was lost, and that he was alone. Then the woman in the
doorway stood quite still, breathing quickly, half hidden from him by the
doorpost, her face wholly invisible in the murk of the night.
“I didn’t see anybody,” she said unsteadily. “Who are you?” It seemed
an unfamiliar voice, rather strangled and more than a little scared.
“Ah! You’re not Evelyn!” Calderon cried. Still he could not see her:
only the whiteness glimmered before him. “I’m— My name’s Calderon. I
beg your pardon. I thought it was my wife.”
“Calderon!” said the voice; and it seemed to him that it was suddenly
filled with a new warmth, as of gayety. Then: “How funny!” said the
unknown. He seemed to see her head quickly lowered and averted. Was she
smiling? Who could have told, in that foglike darkness? It was as much
as he could do to see that she was still before him. But funny? What
did that mean?
“Funny?” he exclaimed eagerly. “Is—” He pulled himself up. Here was a
complication! If he asked any question, might he not make a new
difficulty? He could not ask whether Evelyn was here. He could guess
how quickly a story would run through a mischievous party of tourists,
unrestrained by any real understanding of the situation, and bent upon
canvassing among themselves, merely to beguile gaps in a mealtime
conversation, the history of an unhappy marriage. He could not expose
Evelyn to such a company. So he went no further with his speech.
“Perhaps you’ve heard—” said the voice. “Perhaps you’ve heard of Alice
Bradshaw.” She was quite recovered from her shock, and was ready, it
appeared to Calderon, to hold him flirtatiously in the doorway. “I’ve
known Evelyn for some time—two years.”
“I’ve got an idea—” hesitated Calderon, racking his brains and lying. It
was getting worse and worse! How could he go on without showing how
little he knew about Evelyn’s recent movements? He frowned, and smiled
nervously on the darkness. He was rather glad of the darkness. “I—it’s
possible—”
“But not probable!” said the laughing voice. “Don’t pretend to remember
me, if you don’t!”
“Well, I don’t!” admitted Calderon. “And that’s quite true.”
“Honest man!” said the voice. Something made him move forward quickly.
The figure disappeared. Calderon, putting his hand instinctively forward
to stop her, allowed the little ring to jerk from it.
“Oh!” he cried. “Here, I say!”
He was down upon his knees, fumbling on the ground. A match flickered on
his fingers. He looked quickly up, hoping to see the unknown’s face; but
the match was blown out instantly by the strong wind that was pressing
and fluttering about him as he knelt.
“What have you dropped?” asked the voice. The mysterious one had
reappeared in the doorway.
“A ring!” Calderon said sharply.
“A ring!” There was sympathy in the voice. “What a pity! Let me look.”
He struck another match, and groped about. It was unavailing. The match
went out, and beyond a sudden glimpse of the trodden earth he had seen
nothing.
“It’s really your fault,” Calderon said to the unknown, “for starting
away.”
“Was it on your finger?”
“No. It isn’t mine. It’s a silver ring.”
“A silver—” There was a moment’s startled pause. “Did you hear the song
just now?”
“Yes—Ah!” With the third match he had detected the ring. “Good!”
“Is it your ring?” asked the voice. “I mean . . . Evelyn . . . wears
one, doesn’t she?”
“Does she?” Calderon asked drily. “She did.”
“Oh, she—”
“I found it on the moor. This is hers. I brought it—”
Calderon checked himself again. He was rubbing the ring with his
handkerchief, in case it had been dirtied.
“How did you know we were here?” said the voice, in a tone of piquant
curiosity.
“Then—!” cried Calderon, feeling his face get very hot. He could have
shouted at this confirmation of his most rosy hopes. It was with a
terrible effort that be restrained himself. “Oh,” he said vaguely, “one
does know.” He heard a real laugh this time, but smothered, as though
the unknown were holding a handkerchief to her mouth.
“Evidently,” she said. “But how does one know?”
“How do you know that Evelyn didn’t tell me?” he parried. He felt it was
a master stroke. “You don’t seem to have exhausted the possibilities.”
“No, of course. She might have,” admitted the mysterious voice. There
was the tiniest silence. “But I don’t think she did. Of course, I don’t
know.”
“No, of course,” Calderon politely agreed. “Is she quite well?”
“Oh!” cried the voice, shaking with amusement. “Don’t you know that?
Hasn’t she told you that? It’s too bad to keep it from you!”
“What!” Calderon moved nearer. “She’s not ill!”
“No. I meant that she was well.”
“She tells me very little about herself—very little,” he explained
ingeniously. “You’ll have noticed that she doesn’t think of herself at
all.”
A dryness came into the tone of his companion.
“You still idealize her, then?” Calderon heard.
“Yes. You see . . . it’s an odd thing,” he went on, “and one doesn’t
talk about it. But you see I’m in love with her.”
There was another pause. A significant pause. “I think you’re very
forgiving,” at last said a muffled voice. “I—”
“What I should like to know,” Calderon answered, as if weighing his
words, “is whether she’s also very forgiving.”
“Oh,” said the voice, now very low. “You must ask her that.”
“I do,” Calderon ventured. “Are you?”
“Oh, Maurice, you’re crushing me!” cried the unknown suddenly. “There . . .
Alice has finished singing. She’ll be coming. . . . Give me my
ring. . . . Oh, my dear; of course I do!”
The ring was restored, to rest in its old position until memory’s course
should be run.
_Frank Swinnerton_.