Part 21 (1/2)

”I ought to, but--I shouldn't!” she answered recklessly, and all his blood became fired.

Yet at that, he leant back in his chair and laughed a frank laugh of amus.e.m.e.nt. The tension was over, the dangerous moment pa.s.sed, and soon afterwards they wandered out into the night, to go upon the pier ”just for half an hour” before starting for London.

And neither of them saw that upon one of the lounges in the great hall, sipping coffee and talking to the newspaper-peer Herbert Toftrees was sitting.

He saw them at once and started, while an ugly look came into his eyes.

”Look,” he said. ”There's Gilbert Lothian, the Christian Poet!”

”So that's the man!” said Lord Morston, ”deuced pretty wife he's got.

And very fine work he does too, by the way.”

”Oh, that's not his wife,” Toftrees answered with contempt. ”I know who that is quite well. Lothian keeps his wife somewhere down in the country and no one ever sees her.” And he proceeded to pour the history of the Amberleys' dinner-party into a quietly amused and cynical ear.

The swift rush back to London under the stars was quiet and dreamy.

Repose fell over Gilbert and Rita as they sat side by side, repose ”from the cool cisterns of the midnight air.”

They felt much drawn to each other. Laughter and all feverish thoughts were swept away by the breezes of their pa.s.sage through the night. They were old friends now! An affection had sprung up between them which was to be a real and enduring thing. They were to be dear friends always, and that would be ”perfectly sweet.”

Rita had been so lonely. She had wanted a friend so.

He was going home on the morrow. He had been too long away.

But he would be up in town again quite soon, and meanwhile they would correspond.

”Dear little Rita,” he said, as he held her hand outside the door of the block of flats in Kensington. ”Dear child, I'm so glad.”

It was a clear night and the clocks were striking twelve.

”And I'm glad, too,” she answered,--”Gilbert!”

He was soon at his club, had paid the chauffeur and dismissed him.

There was no one he wanted to talk to in either of the smoking rooms, and so, after a final peg he went upstairs to bed. He was quite peaceful and calm in mind, very placidly happy and pleased.

To-morrow he would go home to Mary.

He said his prayers, begging G.o.d to make this strange and sweet friends.h.i.+p that had come into his life of value to him and to his little friend, might it always be fine and pure!

So he got into bed and a pleasant drowsiness stole over him; he had a sense of great virtue and peace. All was well with his soul.

”Dear little Rita,” were the words he murmured as he fell asleep and lay tranquil in yet another phase of his poisoned life.

No dreams disturbed his sleep. No premonition came to tell him whither he had set his steps or whither they would lead him.

A mile or two away there was a nameless grave of shame, within a citadel where ”pale Anguish keeps the gate and the Warder is Despair.”