“I see you have one there for Mr. Wimple; you will find him at the cottage.” Then she drove on. She looked at her own letter, a little bewildered. “It is not from Walter or Florence,” she said, “yet I know the handwriting.” She gazed vacantly at the hedges again, while Peter the pony, urged by arguments from the whip, went on more swiftly towards the station. Lucas’s remarks fell unheeded on her ears. Something was tightening round her heart that made her cheeks burn with a fire they had not felt for long years past.
“I think we’ll have more rain—them clouds over there seem like it,” the man said, wondering why she was so silent, for she generally liked a chat with him. “Maybe she wanted to drive him herself,” he thought; “I forgot to offer her the reins, and it’s no good changing now, we are so near the station. The train’s signalled,” he said, as they pulled up; “but you are in plenty of time.”
“I calculated that I should have sufficient time,” she answered.
“Would you like me to meet you this afternoon? I will, if you tell me what train you are coming down by.” She was silent for a minute, then, suddenly, she seemed to find courage.
“I shall leave London by the four thirty train,” she said. “It is due at Witley at a quarter to six, and I shall expect to find you there.” She walked into the station, with almost a hunted look.
She managed to get into an empty carriage, shut the door, and stood up by the window, winking sternly at the passengers who, in passing, hesitated whether or not to enter. As the train moved off she shut the window, and, sitting down with a sigh, stared out at the fir-woods and the picturesque Surrey cottages. She did not see them; she saw nothing and heard nothing but the rattle of the train, that gradually shaped itself into the word Liphook—Liphook—Liphook—till she was maddened. “It might have been some one writing to importune him for money,” she said, thinking of the letter. But if the difficulty at Liphook were only a debt, she felt certain that Alfred Wimple would not have spared her the annoyance of knowing it. It was a mystery of which her indomitable pride refused her even the suggestion of one solution, which yet seemed gradually, and from without, to be getting burned upon her brain. A despair that was half dread was taking possession of her. A desperate knowledge was bearing down upon her that the only chance she had of keeping the man to whom she had bound herself was by giving him money. He was evidently at his wit’s end for it, and had no resource of his own, for whatever was the attraction at Liphook it did not seem to include money. Her one chance was to give it him, and to let him see that she would not fail to give it him—then, perhaps, he would stay with her. She stretched out her arms for a moment as if she were drowning, and trying to save herself by holding on to him, but she stretched them only into space, and clutched nothing. “Perhaps he thinks because I am old I cannot love properly. Oh, my dear one, if you would only speak to me out of your own heart, or if you could only look into my heart—for that is not old; it is young. Age makes no difference if he did but know it—I feel the same as when I was twenty, and we walked between the chestnuts to the farm. It is only the years that have marked me.” And then anger and pride chased away her misery and tenderness. “I will have it settled,” she said; “I will know what it means; and if he has not treated me properly he shall be called to account. If Walter and Florence were only in England, I should not be in this sad dilemma.” The mention of their names made her remember the letter in her pocket. She pulled it out and opened it; it was the one Mrs. North had written from Marseille. At another time she would have liked the congratulations, or have been indignant at the divorce. Now she passed the news by with little more than a scornful wink. “It is most presumptuous of her to have written to me; she has taken a great liberty; she has committed a solecism,” she said, almost mechanically. As she put the letter back into her pocket her hand touched something she did not remember to have placed there. She looked puzzled for a moment, then drew it out. It was a little necktie of Alfred Wimple’s, blue with white spots on it. She understood—it was faded and frayed; she had put it into her pocket to mend. She looked at it wonderingly for a moment, then kissed it with a vehemence that was almost passion.
“He thinks I cannot love,” she said; “I am convinced that is it. If he did but know—if he did but know.”
The servant who opened the door at Portman Square instantly recognized her, and was disposed to treat her with more respect than on a former occasion.
“Mr. Boughton is not here, ma’am,” he said, in answer to her inquiry.
“Would you give me the address of his office?”