hear? … No, no, … for I shall wear them, … for I like their odor; … and, anyway, … I am going away.” …
IV
The next day she began her pilgrimage; and His Highness went with her; and a maid from the British Isles.
She had telegraphed to the Sagamore Club for rooms, to make sure, but that was unnecessary, because there were at the moment only three members of the club at the lodge.
Now although she herself could scarcely be considered a member of the Sagamore Angling Club, she still controlled her husband’s shares in the concern, and she was duly and impressively welcomed by the steward. Two of the three members domiciled there came up to pay their respects when she alighted from the muddy buckboard sent to the railway to meet her; they were her husband’s old friends, Colonel Hyssop and Major Brent, white-haired, purple-faced, well-groomed gentlemen in the early fifties. The third member was out in the rain fishing somewhere down-stream.
“New man here, madam—a good fellow, but a bad rod—eh, Brent?”
“Bad rod,” repeated Major Brent, wagging his fat head. “Uses ferrules to a six-ounce rod. We splice—eh, Colonel?”
“Certainly,” said the Colonel.
She stood by the open fire in the centre of the hallway, holding her shapely hands out towards the blaze, while her maid relieved her of the wet rain-coat.
“Splice what, Colonel Hyssop, if you please?” she inquired, smiling.
“Splice our rods, madam—no creaky joints and ferrules for old hands like Major Brent and me, ma’am. Do you throw a fly?”
“Oh no,” she said, with a faint smile. “I—I do nothing.”
“Except to remain the handsomest woman in the five boroughs!” said the Major, with a futile attempt to bend at the waist—utterly unsuccessful, yet impressive.
She dropped him a courtesy, then took the glass of sherry that the steward brought and sipped it, meditative eyes on the blazing logs. Presently she held out the empty wine-glass; the steward took it on his heavy silver salver; she raised her eyes. A half-length portrait of her husband stared at her from over the mantel, lighted an infernal red in the fire-glow.
A catch in her throat, a momentary twitch of the lips, then she gazed calmly up into the familiar face.
Under the frame of the picture was written his full hyphenated name; following that she read:
President and Founder
of
The Sagamore Angling Club
1880–1901
Major Brent and Colonel Hyssop observed her in decorously suppressed sympathy.
“I did not know he was president,” she said, after a moment; “he never told me that.”
“Those who knew him best understood his rare modesty,” said Major Brent. “I knew him, madam; I honored him; I honor his memory.”
“He was not only president and founder,” observed Colonel Hyssop, “but he owned three-quarters of the stock.”
“Are the shares valuable?” she asked. “I have them; I should be glad to give them to the club, Colonel Hyssop—in his memory.”
“Good gad! madam,” said the Colonel, “the shares are worth five thousand apiece!”
“I am the happier to give them—if the club will accept,” she said, flushing, embarrassed, fearful of posing as a Lady Bountiful before anybody. She added, hastily, “You must direct me in the matter, Colonel Hyssop; we can talk of it later.”
Again she looked up into her husband’s face over the mantel.
Her bull-terrier came trotting into the hall, his polished nails and padded feet beating a patter across the hardwood floor.
“I shall dine in my own rooms this evening,” she said, smiling vaguely at the approaching dog.
“We hoped to welcome you to the club table,” cried the Major.
“There are only the Major and myself,” added the Colonel, with courteous entreaty.
“And the other—the new man,” corrected the Major, with a wry face.
“Oh yes—the bad rod. What’s his name?”
“Langham,” said the Major.
The English maid came down to conduct her mistress to her rooms; the two gentlemen bowed as their build permitted; the bull-terrier trotted behind his mistress up the polished stairs. Presently a door closed above.
“Devilish fine woman,” said Major Brent.
Colonel Hyssop went to a mirror and examined himself with close attention.
“Good gad!” he said, irritably, “how thin my hair is!”
“Thin!” said Major Brent, with an unpleasant laugh; “thin as the hair on a Mexican poodle.”
“You infernal ass!” hissed the Colonel, and waddled off to dress for dinner. At the door he paused. “Better have no hair than a complexion like a violet!”
“What’s that?” cried the Major.
The Colonel slammed the door.
Up-stairs the bull-terrier lay on a rug watching his mistress with tireless eyes. The maid brought tea, bread and butter, and trout fried crisp, for her mistress desired nothing else.
Left alone, she leaned back, sipping her tea, listening to the million tiny voices of the night. The stillness of the country made her nervous after the clatter of town. Nervous? Was it the tranquil stillness of the night outside that stirred that growing apprehension in her breast till, of a sudden, her heart began a deadened throbbing?
Langham here? What was he doing here? He must have arrived this morning. So that was where he was going when he said he was going north!
After all, in what did it concern her? She had not run away from town to avoid him, … indeed not, … her pilgrimage was her own affair. And Langham would very quickly divine her pious impulse in coming here. … And he would doubtless respect her for it. … Perhaps have the subtle tact to pack up his traps and leave. … But probably not. … She knew a little about Langham, … an obstinate and typical man, … doubtless selfish to the core, … cheerfully, naïvely selfish. …
She
