The first of June fell on a Saturday that year, and a good many people
remained in town for it in order to be present at the wedding of Lord
Marchmont's only daughter to Hereford Wingarde, the millionaire.
Comments upon Nina's choice had even yet scarcely died out, and Archie
Neville, her faithful friend and admirer, was still wondering why he and
his very comfortable income had been passed over for this infernal
bounder whom no one knew. He had proposed to Nina twice, and on each
occasion her refusal had seemed to him to be tinged with regret. To use
his own expression, he was "awfully cut up" by the direction affairs had
taken. But, philosophically determined to make the best of it, he
attended the wedding with a smiling face, and even had the audacity to
kiss the bride--a privilege that had not been his since childhood.
Hereford Wingarde, standing by his wife's side, the recipient of
congratulations from crowds of people who seemed to be her intimate
friends, but whom he had never seen before, noted that salute of Archie
Neville's with a very slight lift of his black brows. He noted also that
Nina returned it, and that her hand lingered in that of the young man
longer than in those of any of her other friends. It was a small
circumstance, but it stuck in his memory.
A house had been lent them for the honeymoon by one of Nina's wealthy
friends in the Lake District. They arrived there hard upon midnight,
having dined on board the train.
A light meal awaited them, to which they immediately sat down.
"You are tired," Wingarde said, as the lamplight fell upon his bride's
flushed face and bright eyes.
His own eyes were critical. She laughed and turned aside from them.
"I am not at all tired," she said. "I am only sorry the journey is over.
I miss the noise."
He made no further comment. He had a disconcerting habit of dropping
into sudden silences. It took possession of him now, and they finished
their refreshment with scarcely a word.
Then Nina rose, holding her head very high. He embarrassed her, and she
strongly resented being embarrassed.
Wingarde at once rose also. He looked more massive than usual, almost as
if braced for a particular effort.
"Going already?" he said. "Good-night!"
"Good-night!" said Nina.
She glanced at him with momentary indecision. Then she held out her
hand.
He took it and kept it.
"I think you will have to kiss me on our wedding night," he said.
She turned very white. The hunted look had returned to her eyes. She
answered him with the rapidity of desperation.
"You can do as you like with me now," she said. "I am not able to
prevent you."
"You mean you would rather not?" he said, without the smallest hint of
anger or disappointment in his tone.
She started a little at the question. There was no escaping the
searching of his eyes.
"Of course I would rather not," she said.
He released her quivering hand and walked quietly to the door.
"Good-night, Nina!" he said, as he opened it.
She stood for a moment before she realized that he had yielded to her
wish. Then, as he waited, she made a sudden impulsive movement towards
him.
Her fingers rested for an instant on his arm.
"Good-night--Hereford!" she said.
He looked down at her hand, not offering to touch it. His lips relaxed
cynically.
"Don't overwhelm me!" he said.
And in a flash she had passed him with blazing eyes and a heart that was
full of fierce anger. So this was his reception of her first overture!
Her cheeks burnt as she vowed to herself that she would attempt no more.
She did not see her husband again that night.
When they met in the morning, he seemed to have forgotten that they had
parted in a somewhat strained atmosphere. The only peculiarity about
his greeting was that it did not seem to occur to him to shake hands.
"There is plenty to do if you're feeling energetic," he said. 'Driving,
riding, mountaineering, boating; which shall it be?"
"Have you no preference?" she asked, as she faced him over the
coffee-urn.
He smiled slightly.
"Yes, I have," he said. "But let me hear yours first!"
"Driving," she said at once. "And now yours?"
"Mine was none of these things," he answered. "I wonder what sort of
conveyance they can provide us with? Also what manner of horse? Are you
going to drive or am I? Mind, you are to state your preference."
"Very well," she answered. "Then I'll drive, please, I know this country
a little. I stayed near here three years ago with the Nevilles. Archie
and I used to fish."
"Did you ever catch anything?" Wingarde asked, with his quiet eyes on
her face.
"Of course we did," she answered. "Salmon trout--beauties. Oh, and other
things. I forget what they were called. We had great fun, I remember."
Her face flushed at the remembrance. Archie had been very romantic in
those days, quite foolishly so. But somehow she had enjoyed it.
Wingarde said no more. He rose directly the meal was over. It was a
perfect summer morning. The view from the windows was exquisite. Beyond
the green stretches of the park rose peak after peak of sunlit
mountains. There were a few cloud-shadows floating here and there. In
one place, gleaming like a thread of silver, he could see a waterfall
tumbling down a barren hillside.
Suddenly, through the summer silence, an octave of bells pealed
joyously.