“Yes, I suppose so,” said Jane, with a little sigh. “Only I should so like to travel: I should so like a six months’ voyage to somewhere.”
“The voyage is just what I dread, only it would not do to tell Lionel so.”
“You might have fixed on some place a little nearer than New Zealand, some place within four or five days’ journey, where one could run over for a little holiday now and then and see you. It is very ridiculous of you to go so far away.”
“When you say that, dear, you forget certain peculiarities of the case. If Lionel were to settle down at any place where there would be the least possibility of his being recognized, it would necessitate a perpetual disguise. This, in a little while, would become intolerable. He must go to a place where there will be no need for him to stain his face, or dye his hair, and where he can go about freely, and without fear of detection.”
“I can quite understand what an immense relief it must be to you to get away from this neighbourhood, with all its painful associations—to hide yourself in some remote valley where no shadow of the past can darken your door; but it seems to me that you need not go quite so far away in order to do that.”
“It will be all for the best, dear, depend upon it.”
“No; I cannot see it. If you had only gone to America, now! No one would recognize Mr. Dering there, and it would not be too far away for me to pay you a visit once every now and again. In fact, I should make it a condition of marrying Tom, that he gave me a promise to that effect. But, New Zealand!”
As the evening wore itself on, so did Edith’s uneasiness increase, but she did her best to hide it from Jane and Mrs. Garside. Lionel had told her that she must not expect him much before midnight, and up to the time of the clock striking eleven she contrived to take her share in the conversation with tolerable composure, but after that time she was unable to altogether control herself. What terrible scenes might not even then be enacting at Park Newton! To what danger might not her husband be exposed, while, only a mile away, they three were idly chatting about twenty indifferent topics! How intolerable it was to be a woman, to be condemned to inaction, to have no share in the dangers of those one loved, to be able to do nothing but wait—wait—wait! If she went to the window once, she went twenty times, to listen for the sound of coming hoofs. The roads were hard and dry, and it would be possible to hear the horsemen while they were still some distance away. To and fro she paced the little room like an imprisoned leopardess. White-faced, eager-eyed, her long slender fingers clasping and unclasping themselves unceasingly, she looked like some priestess of old, who sees in her mind’s eye a vision of doom—a vision of things to come, pregnant with woe unutterable. The two women watched her in silence: her mood infected them: it could not be otherwise; but there was nothing for them to do; they could only wait and listen.
“I can bear this no longer,” said Edith, at last; “the room suffocates me. I must get out into the fresh air. I must go and meet Lionel.” She snatched up a shawl of Mrs. Garside’s, that lay on the sofa, and flung it over her head and shoulders.
“Let me go with you,” cried Jane, “I am almost as anxious as you are.”