The afternoon"s rest did her good; and when he returned she was ready for him.
He looked at her, as she sat in the garden before the tea-table in her muslin dress and big straw hat, with a shade of approval in his eyes.
He threw himself down into a chair beside her without speaking.
"Have you been far?" she asked.
"To the top of the hill," he answered. "I had a splendid view of the sea."
"It must have been perfect," she said.
"You have been there?" he asked.
"Oh, yes," she answered, "long ago; with Archie."
Wingarde turned his head and looked at her attentively. She tried to appear unconscious of his scrutiny, and failed signally. Before she could control it, the blood had rushed to her face.
"And you found it worth doing?" he asked.
The question seemed to call for no reply, and she made none.
But yet again she felt as if he had insulted her.
She was still burning with silent resentment when they started on their walk. He strolled beside her, cool and unperturbed. If he guessed her mood, he made no sign.
"Where are you taking me?" he asked presently.
"It is the road to the wishing-gate," she replied icily. "There is a good view of the lake farther on."
He made no further enquiry, and they walked on in dead silence through exquisite scenery.
They reached the wishing-gate, and the girl stopped almost involuntarily.
"Is this the fateful spot?" said Wingarde, coming suddenly out of his reverie. "What is the usual thing to do? Cut our names on the gate-post?
Rather a low-down game, I always think."
She uttered a sudden, breathless laugh. "My name is here already," she said, pointing with a finger that shook slightly at some minute characters cut into the second bar of the gate.
He bent and looked at the inscription--two names cut with infinite care, two minute hearts intertwined beneath.
Nina watched him with a scornful little smile on her lips.
"Artistic, isn"t it?" she said.
He straightened himself abruptly, and their eyes met. There was a curious glint in his that she had never seen before. She put her hand sharply to her throat. Quite suddenly she knew that she was afraid of this monster to whom she had given herself--horribly, unreasonably afraid.
But he did not speak, and her scare began to subside.
"Now I"m going to wish," she said mounting the lowest bar of the gate.
He spoke then, abruptly, cynically.
"Really," he said, "what can you have to wish for now?"
She looked back at him defiantly. Her eyes were on a level with his.
Because he had frightened her, she went the more recklessly. It would never answer to let him suspect this power of his.
"Something that I"m afraid you will never give me," she said, a bitter ring in her voice.
"What?" he asked sharply.
"Among other things, happiness," she said. "You can never give me that."
She saw him bite his lip, but he controlled himself to speak quietly.
"Surely you make a mistake," he said, "to wish for something which, since you are my wife, can never be yours!"
She laughed, still standing on the gate, and telling herself that she felt no fear.
"Very well," she said, "I will wish for a Deliverer first."
"For what?"
His naked fist banged down upon the gate-post, and she saw the blood start instantly and begin to flow. She knew in that moment that she had gone too far.
Her fear returned in an overwhelming flood. She stumbled off the gate and faced him, white to the lips.
A terrible pause followed, in which she knew herself to be fighting him with every inch of her strength. Then suddenly, without apparent reason, she gave in.
"I was joking," she said, in a low voice. "I spoke in jest."
He made her a curt bow, his face inflexibly stern.
"It is good of you to explain," he said. "With my limited knowledge of your character and motives, I am apt to make mistakes."
He turned from her abruptly with the words, and, shaking the blood from his hand, bound the wound with his handkerchief.
"Shall we go on?" he said then.
And Nina accompanied him, ashamed and afraid. She felt as if at the last moment she had asked for quarter; and, contemptuously, because she was a woman, he had given it.
IV
A GREVIOUS WOUND