He kept shaking his head
with a nervous movement, and he stared angrily across the ravine to the
opposite hill, where against the skyline the large mass of Eype Castle,
James Mottram's dwelling-place, stood four-square to the high winds
which swept up from the sea. Suddenly he again strode over to the edge of the terrace: "I think I'll
go down and have a talk to those railroad fellows," he muttered
uncertainly. Charles knew well that this was among the forbidden things--the things
he must not do; yet occasionally Catherine, who was, as the poor fellow
dimly realized, his mentor and guardian, as well as his outwardly
submissive wife, would allow him to do that which was forbidden. But to-day such was not her humour. "Oh, no, Charles," she said
decidedly, "you cannot go down to the wood! You must stay here and talk
to Mr. Dorriforth." "They were making hellish noises all last night; I had no rest at all,"
Nagle went on inconsequently. "They were running their puffing devil up
and down, 'The Bridport Wonder'--that's what they call it, reverend
sir," he turned to the priest. Catherine again looked up at her husband, and their old friend saw that
she bit her lip as if checking herself in impatient speech. Was she
losing the sweetness of her temper, the evenness of disposition the
priest had ever admired in her, and even reverenced? Mrs. Nagle knew that the steam-engine had been run over the line for the
first time the night before, for James Mottram and she had arranged that
the trial should take place then rather than in the daytime. She also
knew that Charles had slept through the long dark hours, those hours
during which she had lain wide awake by his side listening to the
strange new sounds made by the Bridport Wonder. Doubtless one of the
servants had spoken of the matter in his hearing. She frowned, then felt ashamed. "Charles," she said gently, "would it
not be well for me to go down to the wood and discover when these
railroad men are going away? They say in the village that their work is
now done." "Yes," he cried eagerly. "A good idea, love! And if they're going off
at once, you might order that a barrel of good ale be sent down to them. I'm informed that that's what James has had done this very day. Now I've
no wish that James should appear more generous than I!" Catherine Nagle smiled, the indulgent kindly smile which a woman bestows
on a loved child who suddenly betrays a touch of that vanity which is,
in a child, so pardonable. She went into the house, and in a few moments returned with a pink scarf
wound about her soft dark hair--hair dressed high, turned back from her
forehead in the old pre-Revolution French mode, and not, as was then the
fashion, arranged in stiff curls. The two men watched her walking swiftly along the terrace till she sank
out of their sight, for a row of stone steps led down to an orchard
planted with now leafless pear and apple trees, and surrounded with a
quickset hedge. A wooden gate, with a strong lock to it, was set in this
closely clipped hedge. It opened on a steep path which, after traversing
two fields, terminated in the beech-wood where now ran the iron track of
the new railroad. Catherine Nagle unlocked the orchard gate, and went through on to the
field path. And then she slackened her steps. For hours, nay, for days, she had been longing for solitude, and now,
for a brief space, solitude was hers. But, instead of bringing her
peace, this respite from the companionship of Charles and of Mr.
Dorriforth brought increased tumult and revolt. She had ardently desired the visit of the old priest, but his presence
had bestowed, instead of solace, fret and discomfort. When he fixed on
her his mild, penetrating eyes, she felt as if he were dragging into the
light certain secret things which had been so far closely hidden within
her heart, and concerning which she had successfully dulled her once
sensitive conscience. The waking hours of the last two days had each been veined with torment. Her soul sickened as she thought of the morrow, St. Catherine's Day,
that is, her feast-day. The _émigrés_, Mrs. Nagle's own people, had in
exile jealousy kept up their own customs, and to Charles Nagle's wife
the twenty-fifth day of November had always been a day of days, what her
birthday is to a happy Englishwoman. Even Charles always remembered the
date, and in concert with his faithful man-servant, Collins, sent to
London each year for a pretty jewel. The housefolk, all of whom had
learnt to love their mistress, and who helped her loyally in her
difficult, sometimes perilous, task, also made of the feast a holiday. But now, on this St. Catherine's Eve, Mrs. Nagle told herself that she
was at the end of her strength. And yet only a month ago--so she now
reminded herself piteously--all had been well with her; she had been
strangely, pathetically happy a month since; content with all the
conditions of her singular and unnatural life.... Suddenly she stopped walking. As if in answer to a word spoken by an
invisible companion she turned aside, and, stooping, picked a weed
growing by the path. She held it up for a moment to her cheek, and then
spoke aloud. "Were it not for James Mottram," she said slowly, and very
clearly, "I, too, should become mad." Then she looked round in sudden fear. Catherine Nagle had never before
uttered, or permitted another to utter aloud in her presence, that awful
word. But she knew that their neighbours were not so scrupulous. One
cruel enemy, and, what was especially untoward, a close relation, Mrs.
Felwake, own sister to Charles Nagle's dead father, often uttered it. This lady desired her son to reign at Edgecombe; it was she who in the
last few years had spread abroad the notion that Charles Nagle, in the
public interest, should be asylumed. In his own house, and among his own tenants, the slander was angrily
denied. When Charles was stranger, more suspicious, moodier than usual,
those about him would tell one another that "the squire was ill to-day,"
or that "the master was ailing." That he had a mysterious illness was
admitted. Had not a famous London doctor persuaded Mr. Nagle that it
would be dangerous for him to ride, even to walk outside the boundary of
his small estate,--in brief, to run any risks which might affect his
heart? He had now got out of the way of wishing to go far afield;
contentedly he would pace up and down for hours on the long terrace
which overhung the wood--talking, talking, talking, with Catherine on
his arm. But he was unselfish--sometimes. "Take a walk, dear heart, with James,"
he would say, and then Catherine Nagle and James Mottram would go out
and make their way to some lonely farmhouse or cottage where Mottram had
estate business. Yet during these expeditions they never forgot Charles,
so Catherine now reminded herself sorely,--nay, it was then that they
talked of him the most, discussing him kindly, tenderly, as they
went....

Catherine walked quickly on, her eyes on the ground.