You remember that one side of the valley in which stood New Wanley was
clad with trees. Through this wood a public path made transverse ascent
to the shoulder of the bill, a way little used save by Wanley ramblers
in summer time. The section of the wood above the path was closed
against trespassers; among the copses below anyone might freely wander.
In places it was scarcely possible to make a way for fern, bramble,
and underwood, but elsewhere mossy tracks led one among hazels or under
arches of foliage which made of the mid-day sky a cool, golden shimmer.
One such track, abruptly turning round a great rock over the face of
which drooped the boughs of an ash, came upon a little sloping lawn,
which started from a high hazel-covered bank. The bank itself was so
shaped as to afford an easy seat, shaded even when the grass in front
was all sunshine.
Adela had long known this retreat, and had been accustomed to sit here
with Letty, especially when she needed to exchange deep confidences with
her friend. Once, just as they were settling themselves upon the bank,
they were startled by a movement among the leaves above, followed by the
voice of someone addressing them with cheerful friendliness, and making
request to be allowed to descend and join them. It was Hubert Eldon,
just home for the long vacation. Once or twice subsequently the girls
had met Hubert on the same spot; there had been a picnic here, too, in
which Mrs. Eldon and Mrs. Waltham took part. But Adela always thought
of the place as peculiarly her own. To others it was only a delightfully
secluded corner of the wood, fresh and green; for her it had something
intimately dear, as the haunt where she had first met her own self face
to face and had heard the whispering of secrets as if by another voice
to her tremulous heart.
She sat here one morning in July, six months after her marriage. It was
more than a year since she had seen the spot, and on reaching it to-day
it seemed to her less beautiful than formerly; the leafage was to her
eyes thinner and less warm of hue than in earlier years, the grass had
a coarser look and did not clothe the soil so completely. An impulse
had brought her hither, and her first sense on arriving had been one of
disappointment. Was the change in her way of seeing? or had the
retreat indeed suffered, perchance from the smoke of New Wanley? The
disappointment was like that we experience in revisiting a place kept
only in memory since childhood. Adela had not travelled much in the past
year, but her growth in experience had put great tracts between her and
the days when she came here to listen and wonder. It was indeed a memory
of her childhood that led her into the wood.
She had brought with her a German book on Socialism and a little German
dictionary. At the advice of Mr. Westlake, given some months ago on the
occasion of a visit to the Manor, she had applied herself diligently to
this study. But it was not only with a view to using the time that she
had selected these books this morning. In visiting a scene which would
strongly revive the past, instinct--rather than conscious purpose--had
bidden her keep firm hold upon the present. On experiencing her
disillusion a sense of trouble had almost led her to retrace her steps
at once, but she overcame this, and, seating herself on the
familiar bank, began to toil through hard sentences. Such moments of
self-discipline were of daily occurrence in her life; she kept watch and
ward over her feelings and found in efforts of the mind a short way out
of inner conflicts which she durst not suffer to pass beyond the first
stage.
Near at hand there grew a silver birch Hubert Eldon, on one of the
occasions when he talked here with Adela and Letty, had by chance let
his eyes wander from Adela to the birch tree, and his fancy, just then
active among tender images, suggested a likeness between that
graceful, gleaming stem with its delicately drooping foliage and
the sweet-featured girl who stood before him with her head bowed in
unconscious loveliness. As the silver birch among the trees of the wood,
so was Adela among the men and women of the world. And to one looking
upon her by chance such a comparison might still have occurred. But in
face she was no longer what she had then been. Her eyebrows, formerly so
smooth and smiling, now constantly drew themselves together as if at a
thought of pain or in some mental exertion. Her cheeks had none of their
maiden colour. Her lips were closed too firmly, and sometimes trembled
like those of old persons who have known much trouble.
In spite of herself her attention flagged from the hard, dull book; the
spirit of the place was too strong for her, and, as in summers gone by,
she was lost in vision. But not with eyes like these had she been
wont to dream on the green branches or on the sward that lay deep in
sunlight. On her raised lids sat the heaviness of mourning; she seemed
to strain her sight to something very far off, something which withdrew
itself from her desire, upon which her soul called and called in vain.
Her cheeks showed their thinness, her brow foretold the lines which
would mark it when she grew old. It was a sob in her throat which called
her back to consciousness, a sob which her lips, well-trained warders,
would not allow to pass.
She forced herself to the book again, and for some minutes plied her
dictionary with feverish zeal. Then there came over her countenance a
strange gleam of joy, as if she triumphed in self-conquest. She smiled
as she continued her work, clearly making a happiness of each mastered
sentence. And, looking up with the smile still fixed, she found that her
solitude was invaded. Letty Tew had just appeared round the rock which
sheltered the green haven.
‘You here, Adela?’ the girl exclaimed. ‘How strange!’
‘Why strange, Letty?’
‘Oh, only because I had a sort of feeling that perhaps I might meet you.
Not here, particularly,’ she added, as if eager to explain herself, ‘but
somewhere in the wood. The day is so fine; it tempts one to walk about.’
Letty did not approach her friend as she would have done when formerly
they met here. Her manner was constrained, almost timid; it seemed an
afterthought when she bent forward for the kiss. Since Adela’s marriage
the intercourse between them had been comparatively slight. For the
first three months they had seen each other only at long intervals, in
part owing to circumstances. After the fortnight she spent in London at
the time of her marriage, Adela had returned to Wanley in far from her
usual state of health; during the first days of February there had been
a fear that she might fall gravely ill. Only in advanced spring had she
begun to go beyond the grounds of the Manor, and it was still unusual
for her to do so except in her carriage. Letty had acquiesced in the
altered relations; she suffered, and for various reasons, but did not
endeavour to revive an intimacy which Adela seemed no longer to desire.
Visits to the Manor were from the first distressing to her; the natural
subjects of conversation were those which both avoided, and to talk in
the manner of mere acquaintances was scarcely possible. Of course this
state of things led to remark. Mrs. Waltham was inclined to suspect
some wrong feeling on Letty’s side, though of what nature it was hard to
determine. Alfred, on the other hand, took his sister’s behaviour ill,
more especially as he felt a distinct change in her manner to himself.
Was the girl going to be spoilt by the possession of wealth? What on
earth did she mean by her reserve, her cold dignity? Wasn’t Letty good
enough for her now that she was lady of the Manor? Letty herself, when
the subject was spoken of, pretended to recognise no change beyond what
was to be expected. So far from being hurt, her love for Adela grew
warmer during these months of seeming estrangement; her only trouble was
that she could not go often and sit by her friend’s side--sit silently,
hand holding hand. That would have been better than speech, which
misled, or at best was inadequate. Meantime she supported herself with
the hope that love might some day again render her worthy of Adela’s
confidence. That her friend was far above her she had always gladly
confessed; she felt it more than ever now that she tried in vain to read
Adela’s secret thoughts. The marriage was a mystery to her; to the last
moment she had prayed that something might prevent it. Yet, now that
Adela was Mrs. Mutimer, she conscientiously put away every thought of
discontent, and only wondered what high motive had dictated the choice
and--for such she knew it must be--the sacrifice.
‘What are you reading?’ Letty asked, sitting down on the bank at a
little distance.
‘It’s hardly to be called reading. I have to look out every other word.
It’s a book by a man called Schaeffle, on the “Social Question.”’
‘Oh yes,’ said the girl, hazarding a conjecture that the work had
something to do with Socialism. ‘Of course that interests you.’
‘I think I’m going to write a translation of it. My husband doesn’t read
German, and this book is important.’
‘I suppose you are quite a Socialist, Adela?’ Letty inquired, in a tone
which seemed anxious to presuppose the affirmative answer. She had never
yet ventured to touch on the subject.
‘Yes, I am a Socialist,’ said Adela firmly. ‘I am sure anyone will be
who thinks about it, and really understands the need for Socialism. Does
the word still sound a little dreadful to you? I remember so well when
it did to me. It was only because I knew nothing about it.’
‘I don’t think I have that excuse,’ said the other. ‘Alfred is
constantly explaining. But, Adela--’
She paused, not quite daring to speak her thoughts. Adela smiled an
encouragement.
‘I was going to say--I’m sure you won’t be offended. But you still go to
church?’
‘Oh yes, I go to church. You mustn’t think that everything Alfred
insists upon belongs to Socialism. I believe that all Christians ought
to be Socialists; I think it is part of our religion, if only we carry
it out faithfully.’
‘But does Mr. Wyvern think so?’
‘Yes, he does; he does indeed. I talk with Mr. Wyvern frequently, and I
never knew, before he showed me, how necessary it is for a Christian to
be a Socialist.’
‘You surprise me, Adela. Yet he doesn’t confess himself a Socialist.’
‘Indeed, he does. When did you hear Mr. Wyvern preach a sermon without
insisting on justice and unselfishness and love of our neighbour? If we
try to be just and unselfish, and to love our neighbour as ourself, we
help the cause of Socialism. Mr. Wyvern doesn’t deal with politics--it
is not necessary he should. That is for men like my husband, who give
their lives to the practical work. Mr. Wyvern confines himself to
spiritual teaching. He would injure his usefulness if he went beyond
that.’
Letty was awed by the exceeding change which showed itself not only in
Adela’s ways of thought, but in her very voice and manner of speaking.
The tone was so authoritative, so free from the diffidence which had
formerly kept Adela from asserting strongly even her cherished faiths.
She felt, too, that with the maiden hesitancy something else had gone,
at all events in a great degree; something that it troubled her to
miss; namely, that winning persuasiveness which had been one of the
characteristics that made Adela so entirely lovable. At present
Mrs. Mutimer scarcely sought to persuade; she uttered her beliefs as
indubitable. A competent observer might now and then have surmised that
she felt it needful to remind herself of the creed she had accepted.
‘You were smiling when I first caught sight of you,’ Letty said, after
reflecting for a moment. ‘Was it something in the book?’
Adela again smiled.
‘No, something in myself,’ she replied with an air of confidence.
‘Because you are happy, Adela?’
‘Yes, because I am happy.’
‘How glad I am to hear that, dear!’ Letty exclaimed, for the first time
allowing herself to use the affectionate word. ‘You will let me be glad
with you?’
Her hands stole a little forward, but Adela did not notice it; for she
was gazing straight before her, with an agitated look.
‘Yes, I am very happy, I have found something to do in life. I was
afraid at first that I shouldn’t be able to give my husband any help in
his work; I seemed useless. But I am learning, and I hope soon to be of
real use, if only in little things. You know that I have begun to give
a tea to the children every Wednesday? They’re not in need of food and
comforts, I’m glad to say; nobody wants in New Wanley; but it’s nice
to bring them together at the Manor, and teach them to behave gently to
each other, and to sit properly at table, and things like that. Will you
come and see them to-day?’
‘I shall be very pleased.’
‘To-day I’m going to begin something new. After tea we shall have a
reading. Mr. Wyvern sent me a book this morning--“Andersen’s Fairy
Tales.”’
‘Oh, I’ve read them. Yes, that’ll do nicely. Read them “The Ugly
Duckling,” Adela; it’s a beautiful story. I thought perhaps you were
going to read something--something instructive, you know.’
Adela laughed. It was Adela’s laugh still, but not what it used to be.
‘No, I want to amuse them. They get enough instruction in school. I hope
soon to give another evening to the older girls. I wonder whether you
would like to come and help me then?’
‘If only you would let me! There is nothing I should like more than to
do something for you.’
‘But you mustn’t do it for me. It must be for the girls’ sake.’
‘Yes, for theirs as well, but ever so much more for yours, dear. You
can’t think how glad I am that you have asked me.’
Again the little hand was put forward, and this time Adela took it.
But she did not soften as she once would have done. With eyes still far
away, she talked for some minutes of the hopes with which her life was
filled. Frequently she made mention of her husband, and always as one to
whom it was a privilege to devote herself. Her voice had little failings
and uncertainties now and then, but this appeared to come of excessive
feeling.
They rose and walked from the wood together.
‘Alfred wants us to go to Malvern for a fortnight,’ Letty said, when
they were near the gates of the Manor. ‘We were wondering whether you
could come, Adela?’
‘No, I can’t leave Wanley,’ was the reply. ‘My husband’--she never
referred to Mutimer otherwise than by this name--‘spoke of the seaside
the other day, but we decided not to go away at all. There is so much to
be done.’
When Adela went to the drawing-room just before luncheon, she found
Alice Mutimer engaged with a novel. Reading novels had become an
absorbing occupation with Alice. She took them to bed with her so as
to read late, and lay late in the morning for the same reason. She must
have been one of Mr. Mudie’s most diligent subscribers. She had no taste
for walking in the country, and could only occasionally be persuaded
to take a drive. It was not surprising that her face had not quite the
healthy colour of a year ago; there was negligence, too, in her dress,
and she had grown addicted to recumbent attitudes. Between her and Adela
no semblance of friendship had yet arisen, though the latter frequently
sought to substitute a nearer relation for superficial friendliness.
Alice never exhibited anything short of good-will, but her first
impressions were lasting; she suspected her sister-in-law of a desire to
patronise, and was determined to allow nothing of the kind. With a more
decided character, Alice’s prepossessions would certainly have made life
at the Manor anything but smooth; as it was, nothing ever occurred to
make unpleasantness worth her while. Besides, when not buried in
her novels, she gave herself up to absentmindedness; Adela found
conversation with her almost impossible, for Alice would answer a remark
with a smiling ‘Yes’ or ‘No,’ and at once go off into dreamland, so that
one hesitated to disturb her.
‘What time is it?’ she inquired, when she became aware of Adela moving
about the room.
‘All but half-past one.’
‘Really? I suppose I must go and get ready for lunch. What a pity we
can’t do without meals!’
‘You should go out in the morning and get an appetite. Really, you are
getting very pale, Alice. I’m sure you read far too much.’
Adela had it on her lips to say ‘too many novels,’ but was afraid to
administer a direct rebuke.
‘Oh, I like reading, and I don’t care a bit for going out.’
‘What about your practising?’ Adela asked, with a playful shake of the
head.
‘Yes, I know it’s very neglectful, but really it is such awful work.’
‘And your French?’
‘I’ll make a beginning to-morrow. At least, I think I will. I don’t
neglect things wilfully, but it’s so awfully hard to really get at it
when the time comes.’
The luncheon-bell rang, and Alice, with a cry of dismay, sped to her
room. She knew that her brother was to lunch at home to-day, and Richard
was terrible in the matter of punctuality.
As Soon as the meal was over Alice hastened back to her low chair in the
drawing-room. Richard and his wife went together into the garden.
‘What do you think Rodman’s been advising me this morning?’ Mutimer
said, speaking with a cigar in his mouth. ‘It’s a queer idea; I don’t
quite know what to think of it. You know there’ll be a general election
some time next year, and he advises me to stand for Belwick.’
He did not look at his wife. Coming to a garden-seat, he put up one foot
upon it, and brushed the cigar ash against the back. Adela sat down; she
had not replied at once, and was thoughtful.
‘As a Socialist candidate?’ she asked, when at length he turned his eyes
to her.
‘Well, I don’t know. Radical rather, I should think. It would come to
the same thing, of course, and there’d be no use in spoiling the thing
for the sake of a name.’
Adela had a Japanese fan in her hand; she put it against her forehead,
and still seemed to consider.
‘Do you think you could find time for Parliament?’
‘That has to be thought of, of course; but by then I should think we
might arrange it. There’s not much that Rodman can’t see to.’
‘You are inclined to think of it?’
Adela’s tone to her husband was not one of tenderness, but of studious
regard and deference. She very seldom turned her eyes to his, but there
was humility in her bent look. If ever he and she began to speak at the
same time, she checked herself instantly, and Mutimer had no thought
of giving her precedence. This behaviour in his wife struck him as
altogether becoming.
‘I almost think I am,’ he replied. ‘I’ve a notion I could give them an
idea or two at Westminster. It would be news to them to hear a man say
what he really thinks.’
Adela smiled faintly, but said nothing.
‘Would you like me to be in Parliament?’ Richard asked, putting down his
foot and leaning back his head a little.
‘Certainly, if you feel that it is a step gained.’
‘That’s just what I think it would be. Well, we must talk about it
again. By-the-by, I’ve just had to send a fellow about his business.’
‘To discharge a man?’ Adela asked, with pain.
‘Yes. It’s that man Rendal; I was talking about him the other day,
you remember. He’s been getting drunk; I’ll warrant it’s not the first
time.’
‘And you really must send him away? Couldn’t you give him another
chance?’
‘No. He was impudent to me, and I can’t allow that. He’ll have to go.’
Richard spoke with decision. When the fact of impudence was disclosed
Adela felt that it was useless to plead. She looked at her fan and was
sorrowful.
‘So you are going to read to the youngsters to-day?’ Mutimer
recommenced.
‘Yes; Mr. Wyvern has given me a book that will do very well indeed.’
‘Oh, has he?’ said Richard doubtfully. ‘Is it a religious book? That
kind of thing won’t do, you know.’
‘No, it isn’t religious at all. Only a book of fairy tales.’
‘Fairy tales!’ There was scorn in his way of repeating the words.
‘Couldn’t you find something useful? A history book, you know, or about
animals, or something of that kind. We mustn’t encourage them in idle
reading. And that reminds me of Alice. You really must get her away from
those novels. I can’t make out what’s come to the girl. She seems to
be going off her head. Did you notice at lunch?--she didn’t seem to
understand what I said to her. Do try and persuade her to practise, if
nothing else.’
‘I am afraid to do more than just advise in a pleasant way,’ said Adela.
‘Well, I shall lose my temper with her before long.’
‘How is Harry doing? ‘Adela asked, to pass over the difficult subject.
‘He’s an idle scamp! If some one ‘ud give him a good thrashing, that’s
what _he_ wants.’
‘Shall I ask him to dinner to-morrow?’
‘You can if you like, of course,’ Richard replied with hesitation. ‘I
shouldn’t have thought you cared much about having him.’
‘Oh, I am always very glad to have him. I have meant to ask you to let
him dine with us oftener. I am so afraid he should think we neglect him,
and that would be sure to have a bad effect.’
Mutimer looked at her with satisfaction, and assented to her reasoning.
‘But about the fairy tales,’ Adela said presently, when Richard had
finished his cigar and was about to return to the works. ‘Do you
seriously object to them? Of course I could find another book.’
‘What do _you_ think? I am rather surprised that Wyvern suggested
reading of that kind; he generally has good ideas.’
‘I fancy he wished to give the children a better kind of amusement,’
said Adela, with hesitation.
‘A better kind, eh? Well, do as you like. I dare say it’s no great
harm.’
‘But if you really--’
‘No, no; read the tales. I dare say they wouldn’t listen to a better
book.’
It was not very encouraging, but Adela ventured to abide by the vicar’s
choice. She went to her own sitting-room and sought the story that Letty
had spoken of. From ‘The Ugly Duckling’ she was led on to the story of
the mermaid, from that to the enchanted swans. The book had never been
in her hands before, and the delight she received from it was of a kind
quite new to her. She had to make an effort to close it and turn to her
specified occupations. For Adela had so systematised her day that no
minute’s margin was left for self-indulgence. Her reading was serious
study. If ever she was tempted to throw open one of the volumes which
Alice left about, a glance at the pages was enough to make her push it
away as if it were impure. She had read very few stories of any kind,
and of late had felt a strong inclination towards such literature;
the spectacle of Alice’s day-long absorption was enough to excite
her curiosity, even if there had not existed other reasons. But these
longings for a world of romance she crushed down as unworthy of a woman
to whom life had revealed its dread significances: and, though she
but conjectured the matter and tone of the fiction Alice delighted in,
instinctive fear would alone have restrained her from it. For pleasure
in the ordinary sense she did not admit into her scheme of existence;
the season for that had gone by. Henceforth she must think, and work,
and pray. Therefore she had set herself gladly to learn German; it was
a definite task to which such and such hours could be devoted, and the
labour would strengthen her mini Her ignorance she represented as a
great marsh which by toil had to be filled up and converted into solid
ground. She had gone through the library catalogue and made a list
of books which seemed needful to be read; and Mr. Wyvern had been of
service in guiding her, as well as in lending volumes from his own
shelves. The vicar, indeed, had surprised her by the zealous kindness
with which he entered into all her plans; at first she had talked to him
with apprehension, remembering that chance alone had prevented her from
appealing to him to save her from this marriage. But Mr. Wyvern, with
whose philosophy we have some acquaintance, exerted himself to make
the best of the irremediable, and Adela already owed him much for his
unobtrusive moral support. Even Mutimer was putting aside his suspicions
and beginning to believe that the clergyman would have openly encouraged
Socialism had his position allowed him to do so. He was glad to see his
wife immersed in grave historical and scientific reading; he said to
himself that in this way she would be delivered from her religious
prejudices, and some day attain to ‘free thought.’ Adela as yet had no
such end in view, but already she understood that her education, in the
serious sense, was only now beginning. As a girl, her fate had been that
of girls in general; when she could write without orthographical errors,
and could play by rote a few pieces of pianoforte music, her education
had been pronounced completed. In the profound moral revolution which
her nature had recently undergone her intellect also shared; when
the first numbing shock had spent itself, she felt the growth of an
intellectual appetite formerly unknown. Resolutely setting herself
to exalt her husband, she magnified his acquirements, and, as a duty,
directed her mind to the things he deemed of importance. One of her
impulses took the form of a hope which would have vastly amused Richard
had he divined it. Adela secretly trusted that some day her knowledge
might be sufficient to allow her to cope with her husband’s religious
scepticism. It was significant that she could face in this way the
great difficulty of her life; the stage at which it seemed sufficient
to iterate creeds was already behind her. Probably Mr. Wyvern’ 5
conversation was not without its effect in aiding her to these larger
views, but she never spoke to him on the subject directly. Her
native dignity developed itself with her womanhood, and one of the
characteristics of the new Adela was a reserve which at times seemed to
indicate coldness or even spiritual pride.
The weather made it possible to spread the children’s tea in the open
air. At four o’clock Letty came, and was quietly happy in being allowed
to superintend one of the tables. Adela was already on affectionate
terms with many of the little ones, though others regarded her with awe
rather than warmth of confidence. This was strange, when we remember how
childlike she had formerly been with children. But herein, too, there
was a change; she could not now have caught up Letty’s little sister and
trotted with her about the garden as she was used to do. She could no
longer smile in the old simple, endearing way; it took some time before
a child got accustomed to her eyes and lips. Her movements, though
graceful as ever, were subdued to matronly gravity; never again would
Adela turn and run down the hill, as after that meeting with Hubert
Eldon. But her sweetness was in the end irresistible to all who came
within the circle of its magic. You saw its influence in Letty, whose
eyes seemed never at rest save when they were watching Adela, who sprang
to her side with delight if the faintest sign did but summon her. You
saw its influence, moreover, when, the tea over, the children ranged
themselves on the lawn to hear her read. After the first few sentences,
everywhere was profoundest attention; the music of her sweetly modulated
voice, the art which she learnt only from nature, so allied themselves
with the beauty of the pages she read that from beginning to end not a
movement interrupted her.
Whilst she was reading a visitor presented himself at the Manor, and
asked if Mrs. Mutimer was at home. The servant explained how and where
Mrs. Mutimer was engaged, for the party was held in a quarter of the
garden hidden from the approach to the front door.
‘Is Miss Mutimer within?’ was the visitor’s next inquiry.
Receiving an affirmative reply, he begged that Miss Mutimer might be
informed of Mr. Keene’s desire to see her. And Mr. Keene was led to the
drawing-room.
Alice was reposing on a couch; she did not trouble herself to rise when
the visitor entered, but held a hand to him, at the same time scarcely
suppressing a yawn. Novel reading has a tendency to produce this
expression of weariness. Then she smiled, as one does in greeting an old
acquaintance.
‘Who ever would have expected to see you!’ she began, drawing away her
hand when it seemed to her that Mr. Keene had detained it quite long
enough. ‘Does Dick expect you?’
‘Your brother does not expect me, Miss Mutimer,’ Keene replied.
He invariably began conversation with her in a severely formal and
respectful tone, and to-day there was melancholy in his voice.
‘You’ve just come on your own--because you thought you would?’
‘I have come because I could not help it, Miss Mutimer. It is more than
a month since I had the happiness of seeing you.’
He stood by the couch, his body bent in deference, his eyes regarding
her with melancholy homage.
‘Mrs. Mutimer has a tea-party of children from New Wanley,’ said Alice
with a provoking smile. ‘Won’t you go and join them? She’s reading to
them, I believe; no doubt it’s something that would do you good.’
‘Of course I will go if you send me. I would go anywhere at your
command.’
‘Then please do. Turn to the right when you get out into the garden.’
Keene stood for an instant with his eyes on the ground, then sighed
deeply--groaned, in fact--smote his breast, and marched towards the
door like a soldier at drill. As soon as he had turned his back Alice
gathered herself from the couch, and, as soon as she stood upright,
called to him.
‘Mr. Keene!’
He halted and faced round.
‘You needn’t go unless you like, you know.’
He almost ran towards her.
‘Just ring the bell, will you? I want some tea, and I’ll give you a cup
if you care for it.’
She took a seat, and indicated with a finger the place where he might
repose. It was at a three yards’ distance. Then they talked as they
were wont to, with much coquetry on Alice’s side, and on Keene’s always
humble submissiveness tempered with glances and sighs. They drank tea,
and Keene used the opportunity of putting down his cup to take a nearer
seat.
‘Miss Mutimer--’
‘Yes?’
‘Is there any hope for me? You remember you said I was to wait a month,
and I’ve waited longer.’
‘Yes, you have been very good,’ said Alice, smiling loftily.
‘Is there any hope for me?’ he repeated, with an air of encouragement.
‘Less than ever,’ was the girl’s reply, lightly given, indeed, but not
to be mistaken for a jest.
‘You mean that? Come, now, you don’t really mean that? There must be, at
all events, as much hope as before.’
‘There isn’t. There never was so little hope. There’s no hope at all,
_not a scrap_!’
She pressed her lips and looked at him with a grave face. He too became
grave, and in a changed way.
‘I am not to take this seriously?’ he asked with bated breath.
‘You are. There’s not one scrap of hope, and it’s better you should know
it.’
‘Then--there--there must be somebody else?’ he groaned, his distress no
longer humorous.
Alice continued to look him in the face for a moment, and at length
nodded twice.
‘There _is_ somebody else?’
She nodded three times.
‘Then I’ll go. Good-bye, Miss Mutimer. Yes, I’ll go.’
He did not offer to shake hands, but bowed and moved away dejectedly.
‘But you’re not going back to London?’ Alice asked.
‘Yes.’
‘You’d better not do that. They’ll know you’ve called. You’d far better
stay and see Dick; don’t you think so?’
He shook his head and still moved towards the door.
‘Mr. Keene!’ Alice raised her voice. ‘Please do as I tell you. It isn’t
my fault, and I don’t see why you should pay no heed to me all at once.
Will you attend to me, Mr. Keene?’
‘What do you wish me to do?’ he asked, only half turning.
‘To go and see Mrs. Mutimer in the garden, and accept her invitation to
dinner.’
‘I haven’t got a dress-suit,’ he groaned.
‘No matter. If you go away I’ll never speak to you again, and you know
you wouldn’t like that.’
He gazed at her miserably--his face was one which lent itself to a
miserable expression, and the venerable appearance of his frockcoat and
light trousers filled in the picture of mishap.
‘Have you been joking with me?’
‘No, I’ve been telling you the truth. But that’s no reason why you
should break loose all at once. Please do as I tell you; go to the
garden now and stop to dinner. I am not accustomed to ask a thing
twice.’
She was almost serious. Keene smiled in a sickly way, bowed, and went to
do her bidding.