Tom said that his master had been obliged to wait two hours at the landing; he had then taken the slow old Hernando when she touched there on her way up the river, going, of course, southward. The Doctor went off to the garden, and walked up and down with a rapid step; he was passing through a revulsion of feeling. He knew those two boats and their routes, he knew that one had as certainly taken Lucian northward as that the other had carried Evert Winthrop in precisely the opposite direction. And this was not a country of railways, neither man could make a rapid detour or retrace his steps by train; there was only the river and the same deliberate boats upon which they were already voyaging—in opposite directions! He was relieved, of course (he kept assuring himself of this), that there was to be no encounter between the two men. But he could not keep back a feeling of anger against himself—hot, contemptuous anger—for ever having supposed for one moment that there could be; could be—with Evert Winthrop for one of the men! Or, for that matter, with Lucian Spenser for the other. The present generation was a very poor affair; he was glad, at least, that nobody could say he belonged to it. And then the Doctor, who did not know himself exactly what it was he wanted, kicked a fragment of coquina out of his path so vindictively that it flew half-way across the garden, and, taking out his handkerchief, he rubbed his hot, disappointed face furiously. Since then a letter had come from Winthrop; he was hunting on the Indian River.
When, therefore, the storm broke over East Angels on the evening of the day upon which Margaret had taken again the reins of the household, she and Garda were alone. After her visit to Mrs. Rutherford, whom she had found quietly sleeping, with Celestine keeping watch beside her, Margaret came back to the drawing-room, closing the door behind her. Garda had made a great blaze of light-wood on the hearth, so that the room was aglow with the brilliant flame; she was sitting on the rug looking at it, and she had drawn forward a large, deep arm-chair for Margaret.
"I am pretending it's a winter night at the North," she said, "and that you and I have drawn close to the fire because it's so cold. Come and sit down. I wonder if you're really well enough to be up, Margaret?"
"I am perfectly well," Margaret answered, sinking into the chair and looking at the blaze.
The rain dashed against the window-panes, the wind whistled. "Isn't it like the North?" demanded Garda.
Margaret shook her head. "Too many roses." The room was full of roses.
"They might have come from a conservatory," Garda suggested.
"It isn't like it," said Margaret, briefly.
"Margaret, what did you say to Lucian? It's two whole weeks; and this is the very first chance I've had to ask you!"
Margaret's face contracted for an instant, as though from a sudden pain. "Yes, I know," she said; "you have had to wait."