She thought that he wavered for an instant, but if so it was only for an instant. “I don’t believe that,” he said. “We should only quarrel; and what is the use of a thing that is forced? And besides, of all days, this is the one above all others that I want to go. It is my best chance”—and then he stopped and looked at her, the colour rising to his face.
“I thought Geoff was to go somewhere, for a holiday.”
He gave her another look, and the red became crimson. “That is just the reason,” he said enigmatically, and with a slight wave of his hand passed her, and went out to the door.
“You will be back to dinner, Theo?”
He turned round his head as he was about to ride away, looking down upon her. “Perhaps I may be back immediately,” he said—“most likely; but never mind me, one way or another. I want nothing but to be let alone, please.”
Chatty had come out to the door, and they both stood and watched him as he rode along, disappearing among the trees. “I think he must be going to—seek his fortune,” his mother said, restraining a sob.
“Oh, mamma!” said simple Chatty, “I would go and pray for him, but I don’t know what to ask.”
“Nor I,” said Mrs. Warrender. “God bless him—that is all that one can say.”
But the house looked very dreary as they went back to it, with all the confusion of the wedding feast and the signs of a great company departed. They scarcely knew where to sit down, in the confusion that had been so gay a few hours ago, and looked so miserable now.
But Theo! What was he doing? Where was he carrying the heart that beat so high, that would be silent no longer? Was he going to lay it at the feet of a woman who would spurn it? When would he come back, and how? Already they began to listen, though he had scarcely set out, for the sound of his return—in joy or in despair, who could say?
XXV
Theo came home neither late nor early; neither in joy nor in despair. He came back harassed and impatient, eaten up with disquietude and suspense. He was pale and red in succession ten times in a moment. He was so much absorbed in his own thoughts that he hardly heard what was said to him as the three sat down, a little forlorn, as the late summer twilight began to close over all the brightness of that long fatiguing day. The evening of the wedding, with its sense already of remoteness to the great event of the morning so much prepared for and looked forward to—with the atmosphere so dead and preternaturally silent which has tingled with so much emotion, with the inevitable reaction after the excitement—nothing could ever make this moment a cheerful one. It is something more than the disappearance of a member of the family, it is the end of anticipation, of excitement, of all that has been forming and accelerating the domestic life for weeks or months, perhaps. Even if there should happen to be an unexpressed and inexpressible relief in having permanently escaped a rule of sharp criticism, a keen inspecting eye which missed nothing, even that consciousness helps to take the edge off life and make it altogether blurred and brief for the moment. The very meal was suggestive: cold chickens, cold lamb, ham on the sideboard with ornamentations upon it, remains of jellies, and preparations of cream—an altogether chilly dinner, implying in every dish a banquet past.
And there was not very much said. Joseph, who was rather more tired than everybody else, made no attempt to bring the lamp, and no one asked for it. They sat in the waning light, which had less of day and more of night in it in that room than anywhere else, and made a very slight repast in a much subdued way, very tired, and with little interest in the cold chicken. Once Mrs. Warrender made a remark about the evening. “How dark it is! I think, Theo, if you don’t do something soon the trees will crush the house.” “I don’t see what the trees have to do with it,” he answered with irritation; “I have always begged you not to wait for me when I was late.” “But you were not late, dear Theo,” said Chatty, with a certain timidity. “I suppose I ought to know whether I was late or not,” he replied. And the ladies were silent, and the salad was handed round. Very suitable for a summer evening, but yet on the whole a depressing meal.
When they rose from the table Mrs. Warrender asked Theo to take a turn with her, which he did with great reluctance, fearing to be questioned. But she had more discretion than to begin, at least on that subject. She told him that if he did not particularly want her, she had made up her mind to go away. “Chatty will be dull without her sister. I think she wants a little change, and for that matter, so do I. And you don’t want us, Theo.”
“That is a hard thing to say, mother.”
“I do not mean any blame. I know that the time is critical for you too, my dear boy. That is why I ask, do you wish me to remain? but I don’t think you do.”
He did not answer for a full minute. Then, “No,” he said, “I don’t think I do.” They were walking slowly round the house, by the same path which they had taken together when the father was lying dead, and before there had been question of Lady Markland in the young man’s life. “Mother,” he said after another interval, “I ought to tell you, perhaps. I know nothing about myself or
