What? what? a fancied sound? No; but the commonest, most vulgar noise in the world: the bell at his door, pealing, tingling, jarring, with a repeated and violent summons into the silence of the night.
CHAPTER VII.
They had all been disturbed by it beyond expression; by his absence, by his silence, his sudden, strange departure which, natural enough at the minute, appeared now, in the light of subsequent events, so extraordinary, which now looked like a flight, but—from what? From happiness, from well-being, from everything that the heart of man could desire. Mr. Ford was a person of a very sturdy mind, not given to fancies like his wife, but after a fortnight had passed he was almost more anxious than she was. He questioned her closely as to Oliver’s past life. Had she ever heard of any entanglement?
‘There must be some one who has a claim upon him, who would expose him to Grace, if not worse,’ he said; at which Trix was naturally indignant.
‘You men have such bad imaginations,’ she cried. ‘How should he have any entanglements? He has been fond of Grace since—since—’
‘Since he saw her here six months ago, Trix.’
Trix grew very red, and the tears came into her eyes. ‘You mean, Tom, that Oliver, that—that my brother got fond of Grace only when—’
‘I don’t mean anything of the sort,’ said Tom Ford, ‘it is women who have bad imaginations, though, perhaps, in a different way. I mean that he had forgotten all about her. But when he saw her again, and saw how nice she was—for she is a very nice woman, poor thing! far too nice to be made a wreck of for the sake of some baggage—’
‘Tom! you have taken leave of your senses, I think.’
‘My dear, you know well enough, just as well as I do, that Oliver hasn’t been immaculate. But why the deuce didn’t he have the courage to tell the truth? Why didn’t he speak to you, or me, if it comes to that? If he had made a clean breast of it—’