Not wishing to disturb him, she turned into the drawing-room, and there, at her writing-table, lost herself in renewed calculations of the outlay to which the morning's conference had committed her.The knowledge that she could permit herself such follies had not yet lost its novelty; and somehow, in contrast to the vague apprehensions of the previous days, it now seemed an element of her recovered security, of the sense that, as Ned had said, things in general had never been "righter."She was still luxuriating in a lavish play of figures when the parlor- maid, from the threshold, roused her with a dubiously worded inquiry as to the expediency of serving luncheon.It was one of their jokes that Trimmle announced luncheon as if she were divulging a state secret, and Mary,intent upon her papers, merely murmured an absent-minded assent.
She felt Trimmle wavering expressively on the threshold as if in rebuke of such offhand acquiescence; then her retreating steps sounded down the passage, and Mary, pushing away her papers, crossed the hall, and went to the library door.It was still closed, and she wavered in her turn, disliking to disturb her husband, yet anxious that he should not exceed his normal measure of work.As she stood there, balancing her impulses, the esoteric Trimmle returned with the announcement of luncheon, and Mary, thus impelled, opened the door and went into the library.
Boyne was not at his desk, and she peered about her, expecting to discover him at the book-shelves, somewhere down the length of the room; but her call brought no response, and gradually it became clear to her that he was not in the library.
She turned back to the parlor-maid.
"Mr.Boyne must be up-stairs.Please tell him that luncheon is ready."The parlor-maid appeared to hesitate between the obvious duty of obeying orders and an equally obvious conviction of the foolishness of the injunction laid upon her.The struggle resulted in her saying doubtfully, "If you please, Madam, Mr.Boyne's not up-stairs.""Not in his room? Are you sure?" "I'm sure, Madam."Mary consulted the clock."Where is he, then?""He's gone out," Trimmle announced, with the superior air of one who has respectfully waited for the question that a well-ordered mind would have first propounded.
Mary's previous conjecture had been right, then.Boyne must have gone to the gardens to meet her, and since she had missed him, it was clear that he had taken the shorter way by the south door, instead of going round to the court.She crossed the hall to the glass portal opening directly on the yew garden, but the parlor- maid, after another moment of inner conflict, decided to bring out recklessly, "Please, Madam, Mr.Boyne didn't go that way."Mary turned back."Where DID he go? And when?""He went out of the front door, up the drive, Madam." It was a matter of principle with Trimmle never to answer more than one question at a time.
"Up the drive? At this hour?" Mary went to the door herself, and glanced across the court through the long tunnel of bare limes.But its perspective was as empty as when she had scanned it on entering the house.
"Did Mr.Boyne leave no message?" she asked.
Trimmle seemed to surrender herself to a last struggle with the forces of chaos.
"No, Madam.He just went out with the gentleman.""The gentleman? What gentleman?" Mary wheeled about, as if to front this new factor.
"The gentleman who called, Madam," said Trimmle, resignedly."When did a gentleman call? Do explain yourself, Trimmle!"Only the fact that Mary was very hungry, and that she wanted to consult her husband about the greenhouses, would have caused her to lay so unusual an injunction on her attendant; and even now she was detached enough to note in Trimmle's eye the dawning defiance of the respectful subordinate who has been pressed too hard.
"I couldn't exactly say the hour, Madam, because I didn't let the gentleman in," she replied, with the air of magnanimously ignoring the irregularity of her mistress's course.
"You didn't let him in?"
"No, Madam.When the bell rang I was dressing, and Agnes--""Go and ask Agnes, then," Mary interjected.Trimmle still wore her look of patient magnanimity."Agnes would not know, Madam, for she had unfortunately burnt her hand in trying the wick of the new lamp from town--" Trimmle, as Mary was aware, had always been opposed to the new lamp--"and so Mrs.Dockett sent the kitchen-maid instead."Mary looked again at the clock."It's after two! Go and ask the kitchen- maid if Mr.Boyne left any word."She went into luncheon without waiting, and Trimmle presently brought her there the kitchen-maid's statement that the gentleman hadcalled about one o'clock, that Mr.Boyne had gone out with him without leaving any message.The kitchen-maid did not even know the caller's name, for he had written it on a slip of paper, which he had folded and handed to her, with the injunction to deliver it at once to Mr.Boyne.
Mary finished her luncheon, still wondering, and when it was over, and Trimmle had brought the coffee to the drawing-room, her wonder had deepened to a first faint tinge of disquietude.It was unlike Boyne to absent himself without explanation at so unwonted an hour, and the difficulty of identifying the visitor whose summons he had apparently obeyed made his disappearance the more unaccountable.Mary Boyne's experience as the wife of a busy engineer, subject to sudden calls and compelled to keep irregular hours, had trained her to the philosophic acceptance of surprises; but since Boyne's withdrawal from business he had adopted a Benedictine regularity of life.As if to make up for the dispersed and agitated years, with their "stand-up" lunches and dinners rattled down to the joltings of the dining-car, he cultivated the last refinements of punctuality and monotony, discouraging his wife's fancy for the unexpected; and declaring that to a delicate taste there were infinite gradations of pleasure in the fixed recurrences of habit.
