“She has gone away from it,” is Ryecroft’s reflection to himself. “I wonder if the ring be still on the floor—or, has she taken it with her! I’d give something to know that.”
Beyond he sees a light in the upper window of the house—that of a bedroom no doubt. She may be in it, unrobing herself, before retiring to rest. Perhaps standing in front of a mirror, which reflects that form of magnificent outline he was once permitted to hold in his arms, thrilled by the contact, and never to be thrilled so again! Her face in the glass—what the expression upon it? Sadness, or joy? If the former, she is thinking of him; if the latter of George Shenstone.
As this reflection flits across his brain, the jealous rage returns, and he cries out to the waterman—
“Row back, Wingate! Pull hard, and let us home!”
Once more the boat’s head is turned upstream, and for a long spell no further conversation is exchanged—only now and then a word relating to the management of the craft, as between rower and steerer. Both have relapsed into abstraction—each dwelling on his own bereavement. Perhaps boat never carried two men with sadder hearts, or more bitter reflections. Nor is there so much difference in the degree of their bitterness. The sweetheart, almost bride, who has proved false, seems to her lover not less lost, than to hers she who has been snatched away by death!
As the Mary runs into the slip of backwater—her accustomed mooring-place—and they step out of her, the dialogue is renewed by the owner asking—
“Will ye want me the morrow, Captain?”
“No, Jack.”
“How soon do you think? ’Scuse me for questionin’; but young Mr Powell have been here the day, to know if I could take him an’ a friend down the river, all the way to the Channel. It’s for sea fishin’ or duck shootin’ or somethin’ o’ that sort; an’ they want to engage the boat most part o’ a week. But, if you say the word, they must look out for somebody else. That be the reason o’ my askin’ when’s you’d need me again.”
“Perhaps never.”