I could see, from the movement of her neck, that she was sobbing. She did not turn round, but motioned me to go away.
“Don’t let us talk any more about it,” she said. “I am ill to-day, and silly.”
I closed the door gently behind me. What mystery was there in this woman’s life? This listlessness, this strange self-engrossment and stranger mania about people long dead, this indifference and desire to annoy towards her husband—did it all mean that Alice Oke had loved or still loved some one who was not the master of Okehurst? And his melancholy, his preoccupation, the something about him that told of a broken youth—did it mean that he knew it?
6
The following days Mrs. Oke was in a condition of quite unusual good spirits. Some visitors—distant relatives—were expected, and although she had expressed the utmost annoyance at the idea of their coming, she was now seized with a fit of housekeeping activity, and was perpetually about arranging things and giving orders, although all arrangements, as usual, had been made, and all orders given, by her husband.
William Oke was quite radiant.
“If only Alice were always well like this!” he exclaimed; “if only she would take, or could take, an interest in life, how different things would be! But,” he added, as if fearful lest he should be supposed to accuse her in any way, “how can she, usually, with her wretched health? Still, it does make me awfully happy to see her like this.”
I nodded. But I cannot say that I really acquiesced in his views. It seemed to me, particularly with the recollection of yesterday’s extraordinary scene, that Mrs. Oke’s high spirits were anything but normal. There was something in her unusual activity and still more unusual cheerfulness that was merely nervous and feverish; and I had, the whole day, the impression of dealing with a woman who was ill and who would very speedily collapse.
Mrs. Oke spent her day wandering from one room to another, and from the garden to the greenhouse, seeing whether all was in order, when, as a matter of fact, all was always in order at Okehurst. She did not give me any sitting, and not a word was spoken about Alice Oke or Christopher Lovelock. Indeed, to a casual observer, it might have seemed as if all that craze about Lovelock had completely departed, or never existed. About five o’clock, as I was strolling among the red-brick round-gabled outhouses—each with its armorial oak—and the old-fashioned spalliered kitchen and fruit garden, I saw Mrs. Oke standing, her hands full of York and Lancaster roses, upon the steps facing the stables. A groom was currycombing a horse, and outside the coach-house was Mr. Oke’s little high-wheeled cart.
“Let us have a drive!” suddenly exclaimed Mrs. Oke, on seeing me. “Look what a beautiful evening—and look at that dear little cart! It is so long since I have driven, and I feel as if I must drive again. Come with me. And you, harness Jim at once and come round to the door.”