The Tragic Bride Part 15

She put out her hand to him but he pushed back his chair and went quickly through the French window of the dining-room, into the garden.

She wanted to follow him, for she feared that on the impulse of the moment he might do something terrible, but controlled herself in time.

She stood on the terrace, impotent, watching him as he crossed the lawn and made for the fields. It was a terrible day for her. She felt that she couldn't go to church in her usual way, but stayed at home tortured by the most hopeless and tragic antic.i.p.ations of evil. At lunch time he had not returned. It was with difficulty that she restrained herself from sending Hollis out over the hill with a search party, but the curious fatalism that had settled on her when once her decision was made, compelled her to patience. It was his own battle, she reflected, and if he had wanted her help he would have come to her. Evidently, he had decided to fight it out alone. She went to her own room and prayed desperately for his salvation.

In the evening he returned, tired out with ceaseless wandering. He had eaten nothing all day and looked very old and haggard. She had expected a tender scene of confidence and was ready to overwhelm him with the consolations of her love; but even now he said nothing to her, and she dared not take the first step herself. From his silent misery she gathered that Gabrielle had not told him that she knew of the secret. Evidently, and very wisely, she had given him general and conventional reasons for her renunciation, treating it as a matter that concerned themselves and no one else, denying Mrs. Payne the privilege and pain of sharing in Arthur's disillusionment. Therefore, his mother judged it wiser to behave as though she knew nothing of what he was suffering, though she saw by the steadiness of his demeanour that he had taken the blow squarely, and come through.

The fact that he didn't break down miserably, as she had expected he would, convinced her more than ever that he had become a man. She felt certain now that she had been right in following her instinct and facing the risk that her action involved. She believed that she had triumphed. Certainly, the boy who faced her at the dinner-table in suffering and awkward silence was very different from the Arthur of six months before. There was a look of determination in his eyes that made her confident. He kissed her good-night without the least tremor, and she went to bed herself full of serene thankfulness. Nor did she forget how much she owed to the girl who was breaking her heart in the loneliness of Lapton. She wrote to Gabrielle that night. "I think it is all right," she said. "Heaven only knows what I owe you for your generosity ... what Arthur owes you."

He never mentioned Gabrielle's name to her again. Next morning, in a calm and serious mood, he approached her on the subject of his return to Lapton.

"Would you mind very much," he said, "if I don't go back to Devonshire?

I feel that I'm rather out of place there. You see, I'm older than the others. Do you think it could be arranged?"

At first she feigned surprise--she could do nothing else--but in doing so she cleverly contrived to make it easy for him.

"If you wish it I will write to Dr. Considine," she said. She didn't suggest the elaborate falsehoods on which she would build her letter.

"I think you are old enough to decide," she told him. "What would you like to do?"

"Is there any reason why I shouldn't travel?" he said. "I feel that I want a change. I should like to see something of the world."

So, without further difficulty, it was arranged. She sent him round the world with a new tutor, waiting placidly and happily at Overton for his return. It was in these days that I became acquainted with her and conceived the admiration for her that I still hold. She often spoke to me in terms of the most utter devotion of her son. I imagined her an ideal mother, as indeed she was.

After a year or more abroad Arthur returned, very much the man of the world. At his own desire he went up to Oxford, where he pa.s.sed a perfectly normal three years and took a decent degree. In his last term he fell in love with the daughter of a neighbouring parson, whom, in due course, he married. The following year the young people went out to New Zealand, a country to which Arthur had been attracted on his travels, and that is all that I know of him.

During all this time Mrs. Payne corresponded regularly with Gabrielle.

Now that Arthur's safety was beyond question and even in the earlier debatable period, she had not the least objection to sharing him with her rival ... at a distance. She even sent her his letters from abroad. In this way they arrived at a curious and altogether happy intimacy. Gabrielle's letters became part of her life, and when, in the autumn after Arthur's engagement was announced, they suddenly stopped, Mrs. Payne felt that she had suffered a loss. She wrote two or three times to Lapton, but received no reply, and it was only by the chance meeting of a friend who had been staying in Devonshire that she learned what had happened. It came to her as a piece of idle gossip, but the shock of an extraordinary coincidence upset her for many days.

It appeared that Dr. Considine, by this time a well known figure in the county, had gone out one evening rabbit-shooting with his wife. As they were returning from their expedition down one of the steep slopes above Lapton Manor, he had slipped in getting over a gate and fallen.

It was the usual type of shooting accident that no one could explain.

The gun had gone off and shot him dead. "He was terribly mutilated about the head," said Mrs. Payne's informant. She did not know what had happened to his widow. Probably she had gone to her cousins the Halbertons. In any case the jury had completely exonerated her.

Mrs. Payne flared up in Gabrielle's defence. "Exonerated?"

"It was well known that they were not on the best of terms," said her visitor discreetly.

XXI

I do not know what has possessed me since I began to write this story.

I have grown tired of this river, where the trout are always shy, and more tired than ever of Colonel Hoylake's fishing stories and his obituary reflections. The place is haunted for me by the tragic image of Gabrielle Hewish. It is strange that I should be affected by the loss of a woman whom I have never seen or known. But I feel that I cannot stay here any longer. Wherever I go in this valley I am troubled by a feeling of desolation: a curious feeling, as though some bright thing had fallen--a kingfisher, a dragon-fly.