“So Hazel’s found ye, has she, Mr. Geoffrey. An’ talkin’ o’ her, you’ve sure made the Bowkers a happy fam’ly. But, my land, Mr. Ravenslee, the scand’lous prices as th’ tradespeople has been allowed t’ charge you these last six months! Here’s th’ butcher—listen t’ this—”
“Heaven forbid, Mrs. Trapes! Rather let that butcher listen to you, miserable wretch!”
“An’ there’s the milkman—that milkman’s cows ought t’ blush at th’ sound o’ your name! Here’s his accounts for the last six months, an’ I’ve found—”
“Have you, Mrs. Trapes? We’re trying to find Hermione—where is she?”
“Oh, she’s in her room—laying down, I guess.”
“Not,” enquired Ravenslee, “not—er—in bed, is she?”
“Mr. Geoffrey, I don’t know; I’m busy. Go an’ see for yourself—she’s your wife, ain’t she?”
“Why, since you ask, I—er—hardly know,” he answered a little ruefully, “anyway, found she shall be.”
With the child perched upon his shoulder he strode up-stairs and along wide corridors whose deep carpets gave forth no sound, and so reached a certain door. Here he hesitated a moment, then knocked with imperious hand.
“Come in!” called that voice whose soft inflection had always thrilled him, but never as it did now as, turning the handle, he entered his wife’s chamber.
Hermione was standing before a long mirror, and she neither turned nor looked from the radiant vision it reflected; her eyes, her attention, all the feminine soul of her being just then fixed and centered upon the tea gown she was trying on; such a garment as she had gloated over in the store windows, yearned for, but never thought to possess.
“Ann,” she sighed, “oh, Ann, isn’t it exquisite! Isn’t it a perfect dream! Of course it needs a wee bit of alteration here and there, but I can do that. Isn’t it good of him to have bought it without saying a word! And there are heaps of dresses and robes and—and everything! A complete trousseau, Ann, dear—think of it! I wonder how he knew my size—”
“Oh, I just guessed it, my dear,” answered Ravenslee in the voice of a much experienced husband.
Hermione gasped, and turning, stared at him wide-eyed, seeing only him, conscious only of him. Lifting Hazel to the floor, he seated himself upon her bed and, crossing his legs, eyed her flushed loveliness with a matter-of-fact air. “Really,” he continued, “I don’t see that it needs any alteration; perhaps the sleeves might be a trifle shorter—show a little more arm. But those flounces and things are perfect! I hope all the other things fit as well?”
Hermione flushed deeper still and caught her breath.
“Oh, Hermy,” said a soft, pleading little voice, “won’t you see me, please?”
Hermione started, her long lashes drooped suddenly, and then—then, forgetful of costly lace, of dainty ruffles and ribbons, she was on her knees and had the child close in her arms. And beholding the clasp of those round, white arms, the lovely, down-bent head, and all the tender, craving, inborn motherhood of her, Ravenslee held his breath, and into his eyes came a light of reverent adoration.
Presently he rose and left them together, but as he went, the light was in his eyes still.
CHAPTER XL
CONCERNING A HANDFUL OF PEBBLES
“And so,” said Hermione, as she waved good-by to Hazel, who stood in the cottage doorway with Mrs. Bowker—a Mrs. Bowker no longer faded, “you didn’t forget even the doll that says ‘Mamma’?”
“It was such a little thing!” he answered.
“What a—man you are!” she said softly.
“Just that, Hermione,” he answered, “and—frightfully human!” She was silent. “Do you know what I mean?” he demanded, glancing at her averted face.
“Yes!” she answered, without looking around. So they walked for awhile in silence. Suddenly he seized her hand and drew it through his arm.
“Hermione,” he said gently, “I want my wife.”
She still kept her head averted, but he could feel how she was trembling.
“And you think—” she began softly.
“That I have been patient long enough. I have waited and hoped because—”
“Because you are so generous, so kind—such a man!” she said softly and with head still averted.
“And yet since I have been well again, you have kept me at arm’s length. Dear, you—love me still, don’t you?”
“Love you?” she repeated, “love you?” For a moment she turned and looked up at him then drew her arm from his and walked on with head averted once more. So they entered the rose garden and coming to the lily pool leaned there side by side.
“Hermione,” said he, staring down into the water, “if you really love me, why do you hate to kiss me? Why do you hardly suffer me to touch you? And you’ve never even called me by my name, that I remember!”
“Geoffrey!” she breathed; “and I—love you to touch me! And I don’t hate to kiss you, Geoffrey dear.”
“Then why do you keep me at arm’s length?”
“Do I?” she questioned softly, gazing down at the lily pads.
“You know you do. Why?”
“Well—because.”
“Because what?”
“Oh, well, just—because.”
“Hermione—tell me.”
“Well, everything is so strange—so unreal! This great house, the servants, all the beautiful clothes you bought me! To have so very much of everything after having to do with so very little—it’s all so wonderful and—dreadful!”
“Dreadful?”
“You are so—dreadfully rich!”
“Is that the reason you keep me at such a distance? Is that why you avoid me?”
“Avoid you?”
“Yes, dear. You’ve done it very sweetly and delicately, but you have avoided me lately. Why?”
Hermione didn’t answer.
“And you haven’t touched any of the monthly allowance I make you,” he went on, frowning a little, “not one cent. Why, Hermione?”
Hermione was silent.
“Tell me!”
Still she was silent, only she bent lower above the pool and drew further from him, whereat his pale cheek flushed, and his frown grew blacker.
And presently, as he scowled down into the water, she stole a look at him, and when she spoke, though the words were light, the quiver in her voice belied them.
“Invalid, dear, if you want to be angry with me, wait—till you’re a little stronger.”
Ravenslee stooped and picked up a handful of small pebbles that chanced to lie loose.
“Wife, dear,” said he, “I’m as well and strong as ever I was. But I’ve asked you several questions which I mean you to answer, so I am going to give you until I have pitched all these pebbles into the water, and then—” Hermione glanced up swiftly.
“Then?” she questioned.
“Why then, if you haven’t answered, I shall—take matters into my own hands. One!” and a pebble splashed into the pool.
“What do you want to know?”
“Two! Why haven’t you condescended to take your allowance?”
“Dear, I—I didn’t need it, and even if I had, I—oh, I couldn’t take it—yet!”
“Three! Why not?”
“Because you have given me so much already, and I—have given you—nothing.”
“Four! Why—haven’t you?”
“Oh—well—because!”
“Five! What does ‘because’ mean, this time?”
“It means—just—because!”
“Six! Seven! Eight! Why have you avoided me lately?”
Hermione was silent, watching him with troubled eyes while he slowly pitched the pebbles into the pool, counting as they fell.
“Nine! Ten! Eleven! Twelve! Why do you keep me at arm’s length?”
“I don’t—I—I—you won’t let me—” she said a little breathlessly, while one by one he let the pebbles fall into the pool, counting inexorably as they fell.
“Thirteen! Fourteen, fifteen—and that’s the last!” As he spoke he turned toward her, and she, reading something of his purpose in his eyes, turned to flee, felt his long arms about her, felt herself swung up and up and so lay crushed and submissive in his fierce embrace as he turned and began to bear her across the garden. Then, being helpless, she began to plead with him.