The sun was low in the west at the close of a long midsummer day, when Mr. Arundel strolled up and down the neglected pathways, backwards and forwards amid the long tangled grass of the lawn, smoking a cigar, and brooding over his sorrows.
He was beginning to despair. He had defied Paul Marchmont, and no good had come of his defiance. He had watched him, and there had been no result of his watching. Day after day he had wandered down to the lonely pathway by the river side; again and again he had reconnoitered the boat–house, only to hear Paul Marchmont's treble voice singing scraps out of modern operas as he worked at his easel; or on one or two occasions to see Mr. George Weston, the surgeon, or Lavinia his wife, emerge from the artist's painting–room.
Upon one of these occasions Edward Arundel had accosted the surgeon of Kemberling, and had tried to enter into conversation with him. But Mr. Weston had exhibited such utterly hopeless stupidity, mingled with a very evident terror of his brother–in–law's foe, that Edward had been fain to abandon all hope of any assistance from this quarter.
"I'm sure I'm very sorry for you, Mr. Arundel," the surgeon said, looking, not at Edward, but about and around him, in a hopeless, wandering manner, like some hunted animal that looks far and near for a means of escape from his pursuer,––"I'm very sorry for you––and for all your trouble––and I was when I attended you at the Black Bull––and you were the first patient I ever had there––and it led to my having many more––as I may say––though that's neither here nor there. And I'm very sorry for you, and for the poor young woman too––particularly for the poor young woman––and I always tell Paul so––and––and Paul––"
And at this juncture Mr. Weston stopped abruptly, as if appalled by the hopeless entanglement of his own ideas, and with a brief "Good evening, Mr. Arundel," shot off in the direction of the Towers, leaving Edward at a loss to understand his manner.
So, on this midsummer evening, the soldier walked up and down the neglected grass–plat, thinking of the men who had been his comrades, and of the career which he had abandoned for the love of his lost wife.
He was aroused from his gloomy reverie by the sound of a fresh girlish voice calling to him by his name.
"Edward! Edward!"
Who could there be in Lincolnshire with the right to call to him thus by his Christian name? He was not long left in doubt. While he was asking himself the question, the same feminine voice cried out again.
"Edward! Edward! Will you come and open the gate for me, please? Or do you mean to keep me out here for ever?"