The first three months of Edie Lewin's married life passed away happily
and pleasantly. Harry was always kindness itself to her; and as she saw
more of him, she found in him what she had not anticipated, an
unsuspected depth and earnestness of purpose. She had thought him at
first a brilliant, dashing, clever Irishman; she discovered upon nearer
view that he had something more within him than mere showy external
qualities. He was deeply in love with her: he respected and admired her:
and in the midst of all his manly chivalry of demeanour towards his
wife there was a certain indefinable air of self-restraint and constant
watchfulness over his own actions which Edie noticed with some little
wifely pride and pleasure. She had not married a mere handsome rich
young fellow; she had married a man of character and determination.
About three months after their marriage, Harry Lewin was called away for
the first time to leave his bride. An unexpected letter from his lawyer
in London--immediate business--those bothering Australian shares and
companies! Would Edie forgive him? He would run up for the day only,
starting early and getting back late the same night. It's a long run
from Stoke to London, but you can just manage it if you fit your trains
with dexterous ingenuity. So Harry went, and Edie was left alone, for
the first time in her life, in the big rooms of Peveril Court for a
whole day.
That very afternoon Evan Meredith and his father happened to call. It
was Evan's first visit to the bride, for he couldn't somehow make up his
mind to see her earlier. He was subdued, silent, constrained, regretful,
but he said nothing in allusion to the past--nothing but praise of the
Peveril Court grounds, the beauty of the house, the charm of the
surroundings, the magnificence of the old Romneys and Sir Joshuas.
"You have a lovely place, Edie," he said, hesitating a second before he
spoke the old familiar name, but bringing it out quite naturally at
last. "And your husband? I hope I may have the--the pleasure of seeing
him again."
Edie coloured. "He has gone up to town to-day," she answered simply.
"By himself?"
"By himself, Evan."
Evan Meredith coughed uneasily, and looked at her with a silent look
which said more plainly than words could have said it, "Already!"
"He will be back this evening," Edie went on apologetically, answering
aloud his unspoken thought. "I--I'm sorry he isn't here to see you,
Evan."
"I'm sorry too, very sorry," Evan answered with a half-stifled sigh. He
didn't mean to let her see the ideas that were passing through his mind;
but his quick, irrepressible Celtic nature allowed the internal emotions
to peep out at once through the thin cloak of that conventionally polite
expression of regret. Edie knew he meant he was very sorry that Harry
should have gone away so soon and left her.
That evening, about ten o'clock, as Edie, sitting alone in the blue
drawing-room, was beginning to wonder when Harry's dogcart would be
heard rolling briskly up the front avenue, there came a sudden double
rap at the front door, and the servant brought in a sealed telegram.
Edie tore it open with some misgiving. It was not from Harry. She read
it hastily: "From Proprietor, Norton's Hotel, Jermyn Street, London, to
Mrs. Lewin, Peveril Court, Stoke Peveril, Herefordshire. Mr. Lewin
unfortunately detained in town by urgent business. He will not be able
to return before to-morrow."
Edie laid down the telegram with a sinking heart. In itself there was
nothing so very strange in Harry's being detained by business; men are
always being detained by business; she knew it was a way they had, a
masculine peculiarity. But why had not Harry telegraphed himself? Why
had he left the proprietor of Norton's Hotel to telegraph for him? Why
was he at Norton's Hotel at all? And if he really was there, why could
he not have written the telegram himself? It was very mysterious,
perplexing, and inexplicable. Tears came into Edie's eyes, and she sat
long looking at the flimsy pink Government paper, as if the mere
inspection of the hateful message would help her to make out the meaning
of the enclosed mystery.
Soon the question began to occur to her, what should she do for the
night's arrangements? Peveril Court was so big and lonely; she hated the
idea of stopping there alone. Should she have out the carriage and drive
round to spend the night as of old at her mother's? But no; it was late,
and the servants would think it so very odd of her. People would talk
about it; they would say Harry had stopped away from her unexpectedly,
and that she had gone back in a pique to her own home. Young wives, she
knew, are always doing those foolish things, and always regretting them
afterwards when they find the whole county magnifying the molehill into
a veritable mountain. Much as she dreaded it, she must spend the night
alone in that big bedroom--the haunted bedroom where the last of the
Peverils died. Poor little Edie! with her simple, small, village ways,
she hated that great rambling house, and all its halls and staircases
and corridors! But there was no help for it. She went tearfully up to
her own room, and flung herself without undressing on the great bed with
the heavy crimson tapestry hangings.
There she lay all night, tossing and turning, crying and wondering,
dozing off at times and starting up again fitfully, but never putting
out the candles on the dressing-table, which had burned away deep in the
sockets by the time morning began to peep through the grey Venetians of
the east window.