“Was it necessary to say that?”
She was hurt—inexpressibly,—and she shrank. He saw that she misunderstood him; but he also saw that, on the face of it, the phrase was not complimentary. His reply was deeply kind, effective. There was a pause—and the great moment for them both passed. Something ought to have happened. It did not. If she had had that touch of abandon shown when she sang “The Waking of the Fire,” Gaston might, even at this moment, have broken his promise to his uncle; but, somehow, he knew himself slipping away from her. With the tenderness he felt, he still knew that he was acting; imitating, reproducing other, better, moments with her. He felt the disrespect to her, but it could not be helped—it could not be helped.
He said that he would call and say good-bye to her and Mrs. Gasgoyne at four o’clock. Then he left. He went to his chambers, gave Jacques instructions, did some writing, and returned at four. Mrs. Gasgoyne had not come back. She had telegraphed that she would not be in for lunch. There was nothing remarkable in Gaston’s and Delia’s farewell. She thought he looked worn, and ought to have change, showing in every word that she trusted him, and was anxious that he should be, as she put it gaily, “comfy.” She was composed. The cleverest men are blind in the matter of a woman’s affections; and Gaston was only a mere man, after all. He thought that she had gone about as far in the way of feeling as she could go.
Nevertheless, in his hansom, he frowned, and said: “I oughtn’t to go. But I’m choking here. I can’t play the game an hour longer without a change. I’ll come back all right. I’ll meet her in the Mediterranean after my kick-up, and it’ll be all O. K. Jacques and I will ride down through Spain to Gibraltar, and meet the Kismet there. I shall have got rid of this restlessness then, and I’ll be glad enough to settle down, pose for throne and constitution, cultivate the olive branch, and have family prayers.”
At eight o’clock he appeared at Ridley Court, and bade his grandfather and grandmother good-bye. They were full of pride, and showed their affection in indirect ways—Sir William most by offering his opinion on the Bill and quoting Gaston frequently; Lady Belward, by saying that next year she would certainly go up to town—she had not done so for five years! They both agreed that a scamper on the Continent would now be good for him. At nine o’clock he passed the rectory, on his way, strange to note, to the church. There was one light burning, but it was not in the study nor in Alice’s window. He supposed they had not returned. He paused and thought. If anything happened, she should know. But what should happen? He shook his head. He moved on to the church. The doors were unlocked. He went in, drew out a little pocket-lantern, lit it, and walked up the aisle.
“A sentimental business this: I don’t know why I do it,” he thought.
He stopped at the tomb of Sir Gaston Belward, put his hand on it, and stood looking at it.
“I wonder if there is anything in it?” he said aloud: “if he does influence me? if we’ve got anything to do with each other? What he did I seem to know somehow, more or less. A little dwarf up in my brain drops the nuts down now and then. Well, Sir Gaston Belward, what is going to be the end of all this? If we can reach across the centuries, why, good-night and goodbye to you. Good-bye.”
He turned and went down the aisle. At the door a voice, a whispering voice, floated to him: “Good-bye.”
He stopped short and listened. All was still. He walked up the aisle, and listened again.-Nothing! He stood before the tomb, looking at it curiously. He was pale, but collected. He raised the light above his head, and looked towards the altar.—Nothing! Then he went to the door again, and paused.—Nothing!