There is, therefore, no fear of the Macleods of Pittenquhair becoming--like certain volcanoes--extinct, at least in the present generation.
XIII
A RUNAWAY WIFE
CHAPTER I.--FLIGHT
The quarrel which had begun about nothing, had become a raging storm.
She faced him with clenched fists and flashing eyes.
"Perhaps you would like me to leave you!--to go, and relieve you of my presence! Our marriage has been a mistake. If you like, I will do my best so that the mistake may go no further. You have only to say the word, and I will go out of this house, never to return to it. Is that what you wish?"
He laughed. It was as if he had struck her across the face.
"Consult your own wishes, as you are in the habit of doing, pay no regard to mine. I can only say that if you wish to go, you are at perfect liberty to do so--I shall be content."
"Do you mean that?"
"Unlike you, I am in the habit of meaning what I say."
She drew a deep breath, as if she were choking.
"Then you wish me to go? To leave your house?"
"Don"t I tell you to have regard only to your own desires--as it is your usual custom? But if you will have it, I tell you quite frankly that if you propose to continue to play the _role_ of termagant, I would much rather you did it in some other house than this. If I can have nothing else in my home, I should like to have peace."
"Then you shall have it."
"Thank you. Will you be so good as to let me have it at your earliest convenience?"
He turned to leave the room. She stopped him.
"Understand, Frank, that if you don"t withdraw what you have said before you leave the room, I shall take your words literally, and act upon them to the letter."
"I understand that perfectly."
"I shall go."
"Then go! I do beg, my dear wife, that you won"t stand upon the order of your going. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, so that it"s just the time for a little excursion. I hope you"ll have a happy Christmas."
"I hope that your Christmas will be happier than mine is likely to be."
"That is very good of you, I"m sure." He flared into sudden pa.s.sion.
"How fond you are of striking an att.i.tude--your life is one continued pose. Do you suppose that I think you will go? Do you imagine that I don"t know you better. You"ll talk, talk, talk! and you"ll pose, pose, pose! but you"re as likely to go as I should be likely to fetch you back if you did go--unluckily for me!"
He was gone, laughing as he went. His laughter was the final straw.
That was what he thought of her! He set her down as simply a humbug; a windbag; a spouter of big words, which were all sound and had no meaning. She might threaten to go; he knew that her threats were but phrases. And he had laughed at her! Very good, he should see! He should learn if she was a person to be laughed at! She might have forgiven him much--everything--but his contempt. He would discover, quickly, if she was a doll, a puppet, an automaton, who could be made to gabble anything by pulling a string.
She did not stop to think--being dimly conscious that if she did she might be impelled to listen to the whisperings of common sense; but, while her rage was still hot within her, she tore upstairs; put on something--she scarcely knew what; rushed to the station, and within a quarter of an hour was seated in a train which was flying along the rails to London. Then, when it was too late, and the thing was done, past undoing, she began to consider what the situation really was.
She had the compartment to herself. On the seat in front of her was the copy of the Christmas number of an ill.u.s.trated paper, which some pa.s.senger had left behind. It lay open at a page which caught her eye.
She took it up. There were two full-page pictures, one was ent.i.tled "The First Christmas." A young husband clasped a young wife to his breast, while they regarded each other with looks of love. The second was called "The Last Christmas." The husband, grown old, was seated in an arm-chair, with bent back, and bowed head. The wife, her hair as white as snow, knelt on the floor beside him, her arms about his neck.
They were as happy in each other"s embrace as in the days of long ago, and their love was just as young. Edith"s eyes filled with tears. That was how she had meant it should be with Frank and herself; their love should continue, showing no signs of the wear and tear of age, to the end. But--
What was she doing? Running away from the best husband in the world, and the home of which she was so proud. Was she mad? or was she dreaming? She started to her feet in a sudden burst of comprehension.
That instant her pa.s.sion was gone; her vision was clear; she saw. And, from what she saw, she put up her hands to veil her eyes. To-morrow was Christmas Eve. Her mother and sister were coming, and some of Frank"s relations". There was to be a family gathering, to spend the first Christmas in the home of the newly-married couple. How she had looked forward to it, and prepared, and made all sorts of plans. But there were still many things to do, various arrangements to complete.
There was not a minute to spare, she would be fully occupied up to the very moment of her guests" arrival. Instead of being busied with the mult.i.tudinous details which awaited her attention she was tearing up to town. Why? With what purpose in view? On what errand? She alone could tell; and she had not the remotest idea.
She looked out of the window, wondering whereabouts she was. She would get out at the first station at which they stopped; if fortune favoured her, she might catch a train back at once; she would return before her flight had been discovered. How the train must have flown--it was Brentwood they were pa.s.sing! Why did it fly through the station? She realised, with a shock, that it was the express which she had caught. That it did not stop till it reached town. What was she to do? She endeavoured to collect her thoughts! The train reached Liverpool Street about six. There was not another back till nine. What was she to do during the intervening three hours--at night, in London, all alone? Discovery was inevitable. She would have to make what explanation she could. She remembered Frank"s words--that if she went he would not want her back again. Was it possible that he had meant what he had said? The horror of the thought.
Something else occurred to her. She opened her purse to look for her ticket. It was there right enough--first, single, to Liverpool Street.
Why had she taken single? She recalled, with a flush of shame, how, even at the booking-office window, she had told herself that the mere fact of her requiring a single ticket to London was sufficient proclamation to the world of what it was she meant to do. She must have been insane indeed! Well, the only thing that remained for her was to stultify herself as soon as she reached town, and to get another single ticket to take her back again.
All at once a horrible fear a.s.sailed her. She shuddered as with cold.
She looked at her purse. Then sank back again against the cushions, a picture of dismay. All the colour had gone from her cheeks, her hands trembled. Was it possible that she had been so mad as that? Such an utter fool? It was incredible. Ridiculous though her conduct had been, she could not have behaved with quite such blind insanity.
It was some seconds before she regained sufficient self-control to enable her to submit her purse to a fresh examination. This time she went through it slowly, and with method. Only to discover that her worst fears were realised. It contained one of her visiting cards--"Mrs Frank Bankes, The Chestnuts, Tuesdays, 4 to 6." Would she ever be there again on Tuesdays to receive her guests? The bill for the Christmas present which she had bought for Frank; when he had discovered her absence would he find that present? Would he dream of how she had schemed and schemed to buy for him the very thing which she believed he wanted? Would he realise with what a halo of love she had meant to enshrine it?
"Oh, Frank, how I love you! If only you knew."
But apparently he was not likely to know for some considerable time to come, for, besides the visiting-card and the bill, the entire contents of her purse consisted of two postage stamps and a threepenny bit. Her ticket cost nine shillings and ninepence. She remembered tendering half a sovereign to the booking-clerk and receiving threepence change; and now it seemed that that half sovereign had been all the money she had brought away with her. How was she to return; to purchase even a third-cla.s.s ticket to take her back again; to send a telegram advising her husband of the plight she was in, with threepence for her all?
CHAPTER II.--THE WOMAN WHO MET HER
As she remained in a state of semi-stupefaction, mistily wondering what sort of nightmare Christmas this was going to be for her--for whom all the world had been full of the promise of good things only an hour or two ago!--the train rumbled into Liverpool Street. As she sat endeavouring to collect her thoughts, so as to decide upon some course of action, the carriage door was opened, and a woman looked in.
"From Chelmsford?"
Perceiving that the question was addressed to her, Mrs Bankes, still half-dazed, looked up, and answered,--
"No, from Colchester."
"That"s right! Be quick, the train"s late,--I"ve been waiting for you."
"For me?"
"Yes, for you. I"ve had instructions to meet you by this train."
Edith rose from her seat, instantly conscious that a sense of relief was being born within her.
"You"ve had--instructions? When?"
"Not half an hour ago. It wasn"t certain that you were coming by this train, but in case you did I was to meet you and see you safe."