"Mr. Lewin's a very agreeable man," she answered quietly, without taking
the least notice of his angry tone. "I always like to have a chat with
him, Evan. He's been everywhere and knows all about everything--Paris
and Vienna, and I don't know where. So very different, of course, from
our Stoke young men, who've never been anywhere in their whole lives
beyond Bristol or Hereford." "Bristol and Hereford are much better places, I've no doubt, for a man
to be brought up in than Paris or Vienna," Evan Meredith retorted
hastily, the hot blood flushing up at once into his dusky cheek. "But as
you seem to be so very much taken up with your new admirer, Edie, I'm
sure I'm very sorry I happened at such an unpropitious moment to break
in upon your conversation." "So am I," Edie answered, quietly and with emphasis. She hardly meant it, though she was vexed with Evan; but Evan took her
immediately at her word. Without another syllable he raised his hat,
turned upon his heel, and left her standing there alone, at some little
distance from her mother, by the edge of the oval grass-plot. It was an
awkward position for a girl to be left in--for everybody would have seen
that Evan had retired in high dudgeon--had not Harry Lewin promptly
perceived it, and with quiet tact managed to return quite casually to
her side, and walk back with her to her mother's protection, so as to
hide at once her confusion and her blushes. As for Evan, he wandered off
moodily by himself among the lilacs and arbutus bushes of the lower
shrubbery. He had been pacing up and down there alone for half an hour or more,
nursing his wrath and jealousy in his angry heart, when he saw between
the lilac branches on the upper walk the flash of Edie's pretty white
dress, followed behind at a discreet distance by the rustle of Mrs.
Meredith's black satin. Edie was walking in front with Harry Lewin, and
Mrs. Meredith, attempting vainly to affect a becoming interest in the
rector's conversation, was doing the proprieties at twenty paces. As they passed, Evan Meredith heard Harry Lewin's voice murmuring
something in a soft, gentle, persuasive flow, not a word of which he
could catch individually, though the general accent and intonation
showed him at once that Harry was pleading earnestly with his cousin
Edie. Evan could have written her verses--pretty enough verses, too--by
the foolscap ream; but though he had the Welsh gift of rhyme, he hadn't
the Irish gift of fluency and eloquence; and he knew in his own heart
that he could never have poured forth to any woman such a steady, long,
impassioned flood of earnest solicitation as Harry Lewin was that
moment evidently pouring forth to his cousin Edie. He held his breath in
silent expectation, and waited ten whole endless seconds--a long
eternity--to catch the tone of Edie's answer. Instead of the mere tone, he caught distinctly the very words of that
low soft musical reply. Edie murmured after a slight pause: "No, no, Mr.
Lewin, I must not--I cannot. I do not love you." Evan Meredith waited for no more. He knew partly from that short but
ominous pause, and still more from the half-hearted, hesitating way in
which the nominal refusal was faintly spoken, that his cousin Edie would
sooner or later accept his rival. He walked away, fiercely indignant,
and going home, sat down to his desk, and wrote at white-heat an angry
letter, beginning simply "Edith Meredith," in which he released her
formally and unconditionally from the engagement which both of them
declared had never existed. Whether his letter expedited Harry Lewin's wooing or not, it is at least
certain that in the end Evan Meredith's judgment was approved by the
result; and before the next Christmas came round again, Edie was married
to Harry Lewin, and duly installed as mistress of Peveril Court. II. The first three months of Edie Lewin's married life passed away happily
and pleasantly. Harry was always kindness itself to her; and as she saw
more of him, she found in him what she had not anticipated, an
unsuspected depth and earnestness of purpose. She had thought him at
first a brilliant, dashing, clever Irishman; she discovered upon nearer
view that he had something more within him than mere showy external
qualities. He was deeply in love with her: he respected and admired her:
and in the midst of all his manly chivalry of demeanour towards his
wife there was a certain indefinable air of self-restraint and constant
watchfulness over his own actions which Edie noticed with some little
wifely pride and pleasure. She had not married a mere handsome rich
young fellow; she had married a man of character and determination. About three months after their marriage, Harry Lewin was called away for
the first time to leave his bride. An unexpected letter from his lawyer
in London--immediate business--those bothering Australian shares and
companies! Would Edie forgive him? He would run up for the day only,
starting early and getting back late the same night. It's a long run
from Stoke to London, but you can just manage it if you fit your trains
with dexterous ingenuity. So Harry went, and Edie was left alone, for
the first time in her life, in the big rooms of Peveril Court for a
whole day. That very afternoon Evan Meredith and his father happened to call. It
was Evan's first visit to the bride, for he couldn't somehow make up his
mind to see her earlier. He was subdued, silent, constrained, regretful,
but he said nothing in allusion to the past--nothing but praise of the
Peveril Court grounds, the beauty of the house, the charm of the
surroundings, the magnificence of the old Romneys and Sir Joshuas. "You have a lovely place, Edie," he said, hesitating a second before he
spoke the old familiar name, but bringing it out quite naturally at
last. "And your husband? I hope I may have the--the pleasure of seeing
him again." Edie coloured. "He has gone up to town to-day," she answered simply. "By himself?" "By himself, Evan." Evan Meredith coughed uneasily, and looked at her with a silent look
which said more plainly than words could have said it, "Already!" "He will be back this evening," Edie went on apologetically, answering
aloud his unspoken thought. "I--I'm sorry he isn't here to see you,
Evan." "I'm sorry too, very sorry," Evan answered with a half-stifled sigh. He
didn't mean to let her see the ideas that were passing through his mind;
but his quick, irrepressible Celtic nature allowed the internal emotions
to peep out at once through the thin cloak of that conventionally polite
expression of regret. Edie knew he meant he was very sorry that Harry
should have gone away so soon and left her. That evening, about ten o'clock, as Edie, sitting alone in the blue
drawing-room, was beginning to wonder when Harry's dogcart would be
heard rolling briskly up the front avenue, there came a sudden double
rap at the front door, and the servant brought in a sealed telegram. Edie tore it open with some misgiving. It was not from Harry.