The awaking came unexpectedly quickly. Perhaps Jack’s slumbers had been disturbed by Mollie’s movements, quiet though they had been; certain it is that she was hardly out of sight before he stirred uneasily, blinked once or twice, and finally sat erect in a spasm of remembrance. He had fallen asleep, not in pretence but in actual fact; for how long he had slept he had no idea, but meantime the bird had flown, no doubt with feathers much ruffled by wounded pride.
Jack did not believe that Mollie had gone out of sight; he pictured her standing a few feet away, squeezed up against the branches of a tree, with blue skirts held tightly together lest a fold should betray her presence. Anxiety for his safety would soon bring her rushing to his side; so he threw himself back in the chair to set it a-going; failed to make it move, jolted forward, and again found it immovable. Then he grew suspicious, and craning over his shoulder beheld the tell-tale handkerchief with the tight little knots twisted purposely well out of reach.
So this was Mollie’s revenge, to leave him stranded in the middle of the park until such time as it might please her to set him at liberty! Jack hardly knew whether to be more amused or indignant at the sense of his helplessness. It seemed so preposterous that a chit of a girl should be able to keep him prisoner, that for a moment he seriously contemplated getting out of the chair and limping back to the house. How contrite she would be when she returned to find the chair empty; how full of contrition, and anxiety about his welfare!
The prospect was not unpleasant; but after nearly a fortnight’s invalidism, he dreaded doing anything to retard convalescence, and the more he measured with his eye the distance to the house the more convinced he became that it was beyond his power to accomplish. It would be ignominious, indeed, to have to give in half-way, and be discovered by his tormentor sitting prone upon the ground waiting her arrival.
Jack determined to be wise in his generation and remain where he was; but it was dull work sitting alone, without paper or book to while away the time, and as his chair was turned away from the drive he had not even the distraction of watching for the return of Ruth and Victor. He took out his pocket-book, searched through its contents for anything of interest, made a few calculations on an empty page, and thrust it impatiently into his pocket. Then he studied his strong white hands, trying to imagine that they looked thin and delicate, carried out a systematic search through every one of his pockets, lest, perchance, anything at all interesting might have wandered into one of them by mistake; looked at his watch and groaned to find that it was still a full half-hour to tea-time. At last when patience was well-nigh exhausted, the crunch of footsteps on the path delighted his ears, and he called out a vociferous greeting—
“Hallo! are you back? Thank goodness for that. I was just looking out for you.”
No answer. The footsteps came to a momentary pause, then crunched on again quicker than before. Jack cleared his throat and roared still louder—
“I say, I’m here! Don’t go without me; I’m alone; I want to go up to the house.”
Silence still; another pause and then a deliberate walk onwards, which roused Jack to veritable anger. This was evidently not Ruth but Mollie, and Mollie must be taught that there was a point when a joke ceased to be a joke, and that, bound or free, Jack Melland must be obeyed. When he spoke again his voice was not loud any longer, but cuttingly cold and severe.
“Will you kindly come here and unloose my chair; I refuse to be kept a prisoner any longer.”