“They say it’s unlucky, my lord, breaking a mirror,” said the butler, gazing ruefully at the ruin.
“Unlucky, be damned, you fool, have you ever known a Reckavile anything else but unlucky. Get me another brandy.”
There was only one thing to do. He would write no farewell letter, that was so common, so vulgar; he would melt away. Never mind luggage, he had the money he had got ready to take with him after the wedding.
“Where is Lady Reckavile?” he asked.
“Her maid has taken breakfast to her, my Lord.”
“Very good, you may go, here take this glass with you,” and he handed his empty glass to the butler.
At the corner of the drive he paused; the wood closed thick beyond, and he looked back at the sombre pile of the old house, for some instinct told him that he would never see it again. Then the woods swallowed him up, and he set his face to the distant railway at Portham Junction.
Carlotta was waiting for him in the little haven of rest, so calm after the turgid days that had passed, and he felt at peace again.
It was so charming to sit and listen to the small trifles of interest which had come to Carlotta’s quiet life, the earthquake which had not touched them, but had been much talked of, and the hot weather which was causing a drought.
When they were sitting together after dinner, she shyly took up a piece of work, and plied her needle while he smoked and watched her.