Sketches in Lavender, Blue and Green | Page 6

blunder,
he found himself in the witness-box.
"Oh, nothing, nothing," was the feeble response, "merely looked in to
see how Edith was."
"Much the same as at dinner last night, when you were here," answered
Blake. "Come, out with it."
It seemed the best course now, and Mr. Eppington took the plunge.
"Don't you think," he said, unconsciously glancing round the room to
be sure they were alone, "that young Sennett is a little too much about
the house?"
Blake stared at him.
"Of course, we know it is all right--as nice a young fellow as ever
lived--and Edith--and all that. Of course, it's absurd, but--"
"But what?"
"Well, people will talk."
"What do they say?"
The other shrugged his shoulders.
Blake rose. He had an ugly look when angry, and his language was apt
to be coarse.
"Tell them to mind their own business, and leave me and my wife

alone." That was the sense of what he said; he expressed himself at
greater length, and in stronger language.
"But, my dear Blake," urged Mr. Eppington, "for your own sake, is it
wise? There was a sort of boy and girl attachment between them-
-nothing of any moment, but all that gives colour to gossip. Forgive me,
but I am her father; I do not like to hear my child talked about."
"Then don't open your ears to the chatter of a pack of fools," replied his
son-in-law roughly. But the next instant a softer expression passed over
his face, and he laid his hand on the older man's arm.
"Perhaps there are many more, but there's one good woman in the
world," he said, "and that's your daughter. Come and tell me that the
Bank of England is getting shaky on its legs, and I'll listen to you."
But the stronger the faith, the deeper strike the roots of suspicion. Blake
said no further word on the subject, and Sennett was as welcome as
before. But Edith, looking up suddenly, would sometimes find her
husband's eyes fixed on her with a troubled look as of some dumb
creature trying to understand; and often he would slip out of the house
of an evening by himself, returning home hours afterwards, tired and
mud-stained.
He made attempts to show his affection. This was the most fatal thing
he could have done. Ill-temper, ill-treatment even, she might have
borne. His clumsy caresses, his foolish, halting words of tenderness
became a horror to her. She wondered whether to laugh or to strike at
his upturned face. His tactless devotion filled her life as with some
sickly perfume, stifling her. If only she could be by herself for a little
while to think! But he was with her night and day. There were times
when, as he would cross the room towards her, he grew monstrous until
he towered above her, a formless thing such as children dream of. And
she would sit with her lips tight pressed, clutching the chair lest she
should start up screaming.
Her only thought was to escape from him. One day she hastily packed a
few necessaries in a small hand-bag and crept unperceived from the
house. She drove to Charing Cross, but the Continental Express did not
leave for an hour, and she had time to think.
Of what use was it? Her slender stock of money would soon be gone;
how could she live? He would find her and follow her. It was all so
hopeless!

Suddenly a fierce desire of life seized hold of her, the angry answer of
her young blood to despair. Why should she die, never having known
what it was to live? Why should she prostrate herself before this
juggernaut of other people's respectability? Joy called to her; only her
own cowardice stayed her from stretching forth her hand and gathering
it. She returned home a different woman, for hope had come to her.
A week later the butler entered the dining room, and handed Blake a
letter addressed to him in his wife's handwriting. He took it without a
word, as though he had been expecting it. It simply told him that she
had left him for ever.
The world is small, and money commands many services. Sennett had
gone out for a stroll; Edith was left in the tiny salon of their
appartement at Fecamp. It was the third day of their arrival in the town.
The door was opened and closed, and Blake stood before her.
She rose frightened, but by a motion he reassured her. There was a
quiet dignity about the man that was strange to her.
"Why have you followed me?" she asked.
"I want you to return home."
"Home!" she cried. "You must be mad. Do you not know--"
He interrupted her vehemently. "I know