He neither saw nor heard from Beatrice till the evening
of the following day. Then it happened that they
had to dine at the same house. On meeting her
in the drawing-room, he gave her his hand as usual;
hers returned no pressure. She seemed as cheerful
as ever in her talk with others; him she kept apart
from. He could not make up his mind to write.
She had refused to accept such proof of his sincerity
as it wag in his power to offer, and Wilfrid made
this an excuse—idle as he knew it to be—for
maintaining a dignified silence. Dignified, he
allowed himself to name it; yet he knew perfectly
well that his attitude had one very ignoble aspect,
since he all but consciously counted upon Beatrice’s
love to bring her back to his feet. He said to
himself: Let her interpret my silence as she
will; if she regard it as evidence of inability to
face her—well, I make no objection.
The conviction all the while grew in him that he did
veritably love her, for he felt that, but for his
knowledge of her utter devotedness, he would now be
in fear lest he should lose her. Such fear need
not occupy a thought; a word, and she flew to him.
He enjoyed this sense of power; to draw out the misunderstanding
a little would make reconciliation all the pleasanter.
Then the letters should flame into ashes, and with
them vanish even the regret for the blessedness they
had promised.
Wednesday morning, and still no letter from Beatrice.
Mr. Athel joked about her speedy resignation of the
secretaryship. Wilfrid joined in the joke, and
decided that he would wait one more day, knowing not
what a day might bring forth.
CHAPTER XXII
HER PATH IN THE SHADOW
Yielding to the urgency of Beatrice, who was supported
in her entreaty by Mrs. Birks, Wilfrid had, a little
ere this, consented to sit for his portrait to an
artist, a friend of the family, who had already made
a very successful picture of Beatrice herself.
The artist resided at Teddington. Wilfrid was
due for a sitting this Wednesday morning, and he went
down into the country, intending to be back for lunch
and the House of Commons. But the weather was
magnificent, and, the sitting over, truant thoughts
began to assail the young legislator. Bushey Park
was at hand, with its chestnut avenue leading to Hampton
Court. A ramble of indefinite duration was, in
his present frame of mind, much more attractive than
the eloquence of independent members. He determined
to take a holiday.
A very leisurely stroll across the park brought him
to the King’s Arms, and the sight of the hostelry
suggested pleasant thoughts of sundry refreshing viands
and cooling liquors. He entered and lunched.
It was a holiday, and a truant holiday; he allowed
himself champagne. When he came forth again,
his intention to stroll through the galleries of the
Palace had given way before the remembered shadow of
the chestnuts; he returned to the park, and, after
Copyrights
A Life's Morning from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
