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What Gladys! he cried. She rose stiffly to her feet, and confronted him with her back to the moonlight. Up here alone?
You didnt miss me, then? Her tone was low and hoarse the words ran into one another in their hurried, eager utterance.
Why, no, cried Alfred; to tell you the truth, I didnt.
He seemed to her in better spirits than he had been all day; his voice was full and cheery, and his manner brisk. Why? Evidently the evening had gone off very agreeably. Why? Was it because he had got rid of her for an hour? Was it, then, true that he was doing his best to get rid of her for a week that he would be only too glad to get rid of her for ever? It was as though a poniard were being held to her breast. She paused, and nerved herself to speak calmly, before, as it were, baring her bosom to the steel.
Alfred, she said at length, with slow distinctness, but not with the manner of one who is consciously asking a question of life or death, I have been thinking it over, about the Barringtons; and I think I should like to go to them on Saturday after all. May I go?
May you? Alfred fairly shouted. I am only too delighted, Gladdie! Of course you may.
The poniard went in to the hilt.
So delighted was Alfred that he caught her in his arms and kissed her. Her cheek was quite cold, her frame all limp. Though she reeled on her feet, she seemed to shrink instinctively from his support.
Whats the matter, Gladdie?
he cried, in sudden alarm. Whats wrong are you ill? Stop, Ill fetch
She interrupted him in a whisper.
Fetch no one. She dropped one hand upon the dressing-table, leant her weight upon it, and motioned him back with the other. I am not ill; I only was faint, just for a moment. I am all right now. There, thats a long breath; I can speak quite properly again. You see, it was only a passing faintness. I must have fallen asleep by the window. I was enjoying the lovely night, and that must have done it. There, I am only tired now, and want sleep!
That acid had been applied, and not in drops. Its work was complete.
CHAPTER XV THE FIRST PARTING
If I hear any more such absurd talk, Lady Bligh said at last, and with some impatience, about forgiveness and the like, I shall punish you by not allowing you to leave me at all.
It is too late to do that, Gladys hastily put in. But oh, Lady Bligh! if only you knew how happy you have made me how happily I go away, having your forgiveness for everything, for everything
Except for what you are saying now. How wildly you do talk, child! One would think you were going for ever.
Who knows, Lady Bligh? There are accidents every day. Thats why Im thankful to be leaving like this.
Lady Bligh hated sentimentality. Only the intense earnestness of the girls voice and manner restrained her from laughing; sentimentality was only fit to be laughed at; but this was sentimentality of a puzzling kind.
A minute later, with passionate kisses and incoherent expressions, out of all proportion to the occasion, and fairly bewildering to poor Lady Bligh, Gladys was gone.
Alfred scanned her narrowly as they drove to the station. By the way she kept turning round to gaze backward, you would have thought her anxious to see the last of things, as small boys are when the holidays are over, and bigger boys when they go finally out into the world. Alfred was going with her to Liverpool Street. She had refused to go at all if he took her (as he wanted to) all the way into Suffolk, to return himself by the next train.
Gladdie, he said, after watching her closely, you look cut up; is it from saying good-bye to the mater ?
I suppose it must be if I really look like that.
There is still, perhaps, some soreness
No, there is none now, said Gladys, quickly.
Then what is it?
Only that it is so dreadful, saying good-bye!
My darling! by the way you talk you might be going for good and all. And it is only for a week.
She did not answer, but pressed the hand that closed over her own.
During the half-hours run to Waterloo he continued to glance furtively, and not without apprehension, at her face. It was unusually pale; dark rings encircled the eyes, and the eyes were unusually brilliant.
They had a compartment to themselves. He held her hand all the way, and she his, like a pair of moonstruck young lovers; and, for the most part, they were as silent.
You have not been yourself these last few days, he said at length; I am glad you are going.
And I am glad of that, she answered.
Her tone was odd.
But I shall be wretched while you are gone, he quickly added.
She made no reply to this; it seemed to her an afterthought. But, if it was, it grew upon him with swift and miserable effect as the minutes remaining to them gradually diminished. When they drove up to Liverpool Street he was in the depths of dejection.
It was their first parting.
She insisted on sending the necessary telegram to the Barringtons herself. His depression made him absent, and even remiss. He stood listlessly by while she filled in the form; at any other time he would have done this for her, or at least looked over her shoulder humorously to check the spelling; but this afternoon he was less attentive in little things than she had ever known him, because she had never known him so depressed.