III
THE HONEYMOON
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.
Nina started
"Why, it's Sunday!" she exclaimed. "I had quite forgotten. We ought to go to church."
Wingarde turned round.
"What an inspiration!" he said dryly.
His tone offended her. She drew herself up.
"Are you coming?" she asked coldly.
He looked at her with the same cynical smile with which he had received her overture the night before.
"No," he said. "I won't bore you with my company this morning."
She shrugged her shoulders.
"As you please," she said, turning to the door.
He made no rejoinder. And as she passed out, she realized that he believed she had suggested going to church in order to escape an hour of his hated society. It was but a slight injustice and certainly not wholly unprovoked by her. But, curiously, she resented it very strongly. She almost felt as if he had insulted her.
She found him smoking in the garden when she returned from her solitary expedition, and she hoped savagely that he had found his own society as distasteful as she did; though on second thoughts this seemed scarcely possible.
She decided regretfully, yet with an inner sense of expediency, that she would spend the afternoon in his company. But her husband had other plans.
"You have had a hot walk," he said. "You had better rest this afternoon. I am going to do a little mountaineering; but I mean to be back by tea-time. Perhaps when it is cool you will come for a stroll, unless you have arranged to attend the evening service also."
He glanced at her and saw the indignant colour rise in her face. But she was too proud to protest.
"As you wish," she said coldly.
Conversation during lunch was distinctly laboured. Wingarde's silences were many and oppressive. It was an unspeakable relief to the girl when at length he took himself off. She told herself with a wry smile that he was getting on her nerves. She did not yet own that he frightened her.
The afternoon's rest did her good; and when he returned she was ready for him.
He looked at her, as she sat in the garden before the tea-table in her muslin dress and big straw hat, with a shade of approval in his eyes.
He threw himself down into a chair beside her without speaking.
"Have you been far?" she asked.
"To the top of the hill," he answered. "I had a splendid view of the sea."
"It must have been perfect," she said.
"You have been there?" he asked.
"Oh, yes," she answered, "long ago; with Archie."
Wingarde turned his head and looked at her attentively. She tried to appear unconscious of his scrutiny, and failed signally. Before she could control it, the blood had rushed to her face.
"And you found it worth doing?" he asked.
The question seemed to call for no reply, and she made none.
But yet again she felt as if he had insulted her.
She was still burning with silent resentment when they started on their walk. He strolled beside her, cool and unperturbed. If he guessed her mood, he made no sign.
"Where are you taking me?" he asked presently.
"It is the road to the wishing-gate," she replied icily. "There is a good view of the lake farther on."
He made no further enquiry, and they walked on in dead silence through exquisite scenery.
They reached the wishing-gate, and the girl stopped almost involuntarily.
"Is this the fateful spot?" said Wingarde, coming suddenly out of his reverie. "What is the usual thing to do? Cut our names on the gate-post? Rather a low-down game, I always think."
She uttered a sudden, breathless laugh. "My name is here already," she said, pointing with a finger that shook slightly at some minute characters cut into the second bar of the gate.
He bent and looked at the inscription—two names cut with infinite care, two minute hearts intertwined beneath.
Nina watched him with a scornful little smile on her lips.
"Artistic, isn't it?" she said.
He straightened himself abruptly, and their eyes met. There was a curious glint in his that she had never seen before. She put her hand sharply to her throat. Quite suddenly she knew that she was afraid of this monster to whom she had given herself—horribly, unreasonably afraid.
But he did not speak, and her scare began to subside.
"Now I'm going to wish," she said mounting the lowest bar of the gate.
He spoke then, abruptly, cynically.
"Really," he said, "what can you have to wish for now?"
She looked back at him defiantly. Her eyes were on a level with his. Because he had frightened her, she went the more recklessly. It would never answer to let him suspect this power of his.
"Something that I'm afraid you will never give me," she said, a bitter ring in her voice.
"What?" he asked sharply.
"Among other things, happiness," she said. "You can never give me that."
She saw him bite his lip, but he controlled himself to speak quietly.
"Surely you make a mistake," he said, "to wish for something which, since you are my wife, can never be yours!"
She laughed, still standing on the gate, and telling herself that she felt no fear.
"Very well," she said, "I will wish for a Deliverer first."
"For what?"
His naked fist banged down upon the gate-post, and she saw the blood start instantly and begin to flow. She knew in that moment that she had gone too far.
Her fear returned in an overwhelming flood. She stumbled off the gate and faced him, white to the lips.
A terrible pause followed, in which she knew herself to be fighting him with every inch of her strength. Then suddenly, without apparent reason, she gave in.
"I was joking," she said, in a low voice. "I spoke in jest."
He made her a curt bow, his face inflexibly stern.
"It is good of you to explain," he said. "With my limited knowledge of your character and motives, I am apt to make mistakes."
He turned from her abruptly with the words, and, shaking the blood from his hand, bound the wound with his handkerchief.
"Shall we go on?" he said then.
And Nina accompanied him, ashamed and afraid. She felt as if at the last moment she had asked for quarter; and, contemptuously, because she was a woman, he had given it.