In the vast hall-way of the house, with men tramping about the stone
floor bringing in his luggage and his trophies, the butler very
silently gave him a slim letter. Aubrey Carlyle looked at the
handwriting on the letter, and then at the silent servant.
“When did my wire arrive?”
“At six o’clock last night, sir.”
And then Aubrey knew the letter in his hand to hold the greatest shock
of his life. But he was not a dramatic man, he did not take his
surprises dramatically. He put the letter into his pocket.
“And then, Hunt?”
“Sir?”
“And then?”
“Madam left by the eleven o’clock London train this morning, sir. She
took luggage.”
“I will have a bath now. Very hot, tell Vesey. Dinner at the usual time.
Thank you, Hunt.” Twenty-five years had Hunt been with his master; ten
years longer than Gloria.
Aubrey had his bath, very hot. And then he put on those nice, slack,
black things which so advantage a man’s looks at night; and with them he
always wore a soft shirt, for Aubrey would have seen the greatest
hostess in the land to blazes rather than be uncomfortable in a stiff
one. For a long time he sat on the broad window-seat in his bedroom and
looked out on the avenue of tall trees that joined his park to the
distant shroud of Carmion Wood. The prospect was very fair in the soft
evening light. God is like a woman in the evenings, He makes the land
look so shy. And then he heard Gloria’s voice, but it was very distant,
for it came from across a wide valley. He just heard Gloria’s voice, but
he could not make out what she was saying. And he remembered sudden
little phrases of hers in her fine, whispering voice, little broken
phrases, and how she would smile very crookedly, and how her great eyes
would queerly cloud over.
And then he read the letter. It was a very short letter.
It was after ten o’clock when he passed from the dining-room into the
drawing-room. Hunt entered after him to draw the curtains across the
French windows, but he was told to let them be; and Hunt switched on the
lights, but he was told to switch them off again and that nothing more
would be required of him that night.
Again Aubrey read the letter. It was a very short letter. “You know why,
dear. Good-bye. Gloria.”
He was angry, because he didn’t know why; he had not the faintest idea
why. But anger is no sort of a weapon with which to fight solitude, and
this was the most solitary moment of Aubrey Carlyle’s life, he who had
hunted wild beasts in the loneliest places of the Americas.
He threw wide open the three French windows and prowled about the large
dim room. “You know why.” God in Heaven, what was she talking about! How
could he know why?--and what was there to know? He prowled about the
room....
They had been good friends, amazingly good friends. He had relied on her
to understand that. Good Lord, everything he had done to her or had not
done to her had been in friendship! Surely she had understood that....
She had seemed to.... Fourteen, fifteen years.... Why, she couldn’t have
expected him to behave like an impassioned lover all the time! Fifteen
years.... There were moments.... When he came back from any of his
travels and saw her, he loved her madly. It was like a choke in the
heart when he saw her on his returns, that marvellous tawny Gloria with
the funny crooked smile. Oh, child, child, what have you done? He had
treated her like a friend.... And what was the use of having a great
friend if you had to write letters to her? He never wrote letters when
he was abroad; he hated writing letters. Of course she had understood
that....
And he prowled about the large dim room, through the clear throbbing
stillness, for the face of the moon hung over distant Carmion Wood and
leered genially into the room. He did not understand.... At last he sat
down in a great chair by the fireplace, and as he sat there he thought
how, after his many returns, he had sat on that chair and taken Gloria
to his knee and loved her. And Aubrey Carlyle cried for the first time
in his life....