The prayer of Ella Linton had not been answered. She had prayed, not that her heart wherewith she loved Herbert Courtland might be changed --that she knew would be difficult; not that her love for Herbert Courtland might cease--that she believed to be impossible; but simply that Herbert Courtland might be kept away from her--that she knew to be the most sensible course her scheme of imploration could take.
She was well aware of the fact that God had given her strength to run away from Herbert Courtland, and for that she was sincerely thankful; she did not pause to analyze her feelings, to ask herself if her thanks were due to her reflection upon the circumstance of her husband's return, at the very hour when she had appointed to meet Herbert Courtland; she only felt that God had been good to her in giving her sufficient strength to run away from that appointment. Then it was that she had prayed that he might be kept away from her. Surely God would find it easy to do that, she thought. Surely she might assume that God was on her side, and that he would not leave his work half done.
But when she began to think of the thorough manner in which God does his work she began to wish that she had not prayed quite so earnestly.
Supposing that God should think it fit to keep him away from her by sending a blast from heaven to capsize that yacht in the deep sea, what would she think of the fervency of her prayer then?
The terror of her reflection upon the possibility of this occurrence flung her from her bed and sent her pacing, with bare feet and flying lace, the floor of her bedroom in the first pearly light of dawn, just as she had paced the floor of Phyllis' drawing room beneath the glow of the electric lights.
She wished that she had not prayed quite so earnestly that he might be kept apart from her. But one cannot pray hot and cold; she felt that she had no right now to lay down any conditions to Heaven in the matter of keeping Herbert Courtland away from her. She had prayed her prayer; only, if he were drowned before she saw him again, she would never say another prayer.
This feeling that she would be even with Heaven, so to speak, had the effect of soothing her. She threw herself upon her bed once more and was able to fall asleep; she had a considerable amount of confidence in the discrimination of Heaven.
But before she had come down to the breakfast room where her husband was reading a newspaper in the morning, she had thought a good deal upon another matter that disquieted her in some degree. She had been exuberant (she thought) at having had sufficient strength given to her to run away from her lover; but then she had not dwelt upon the rather important circumstance that all the running away had not been on her side. What were the facts as revealed by the narrative of Mr. Ayrton?
Why, simply, that while she was putting on that supreme toilet which she had prepared for the delight of the eyes of her lover (feeling herself to be a modern Cleopatra), that lover of hers was sitting on the cushions of a first-class carriage, flying along to Southampton; and while she had been lying among the cushions of her drawing room, waiting tremulously, nervously, ecstatically, for the dreary minutes to crawl on until the clock should chime the hour of nine, he was probably lighting his first pipe aboard the yacht /Water Nymph/. What did it matter that she had lifted her hot face from her cushions and had fled in wild haste to the arms of Phyllis Ayrton? The fact remained the same; it was he who had run away from her.
That was a terrible reflection. Hitherto she had never felt humiliated. She had not felt that he had insulted her by his kisses; she had given him kiss for kiss. She had but to hold up her finger and he was ready to obey her. But now--what was she to think of him? Had ever man so humiliated woman? She had offered him, not her heart but her soul--had he not told her a few days before that he meant her to give him her soul? and when she had laid heart and soul at his feet--that was how she put it to herself--he had not considered it worth his while to take the priceless gift that she offered to him.
"He will answer to me for that," she said, as she thought over her humiliation, in front of her dressing-glass that morning, while her maid was absent from the room.
Her wish was now not that her prayer had been less earnest, but that it had not been uttered at all. It was necessary for her to meet him again in order that he might explain to her how it came that he had preferred the attractions incidental to a cruise with Lord Earlscourt and his friends to all that she had written to offer him.
And yet when her husband, after having quite finished with his paper, said:
"It's very awkward that Herbert Courtland is not in town,"
She merely raised her shoulders an inch, saying:
"I suppose that he has a right to take a holiday now and then. If you didn't telegraph to him from Paris, you cannot complain."
"I felt certain that I should find him here," said the husband.
"Here?" said the wife, raising her eyebrows and casting an offended glance at her husband. "Here?"
He smiled in the face of her offended glance.
"Here--in London, I mean, of course. Heavens, Ella! did you fancy for a moment that I meant---- Ah, by the way, you have seen him recently?"
"Oh, yes; quite recently--on Tuesday, I think it was, we met at the Ayrton's dinner party--yes, it was Tuesday. There was some fuss, or attempted fuss, about his adventures in New Guinea, and a question was being asked about the matter in the House of Commons. Mr. Ayrton got rid of some of his superfluous cleverness in putting a counter question--you know the way."
"Oh, perfectly well! And that is how you met on Tuesday--if it was Tuesday?"
"Yes; he went to thank Mr. Ayrton, and Mr. Ayrton asked him to dinner.
It was a small party, and not very brilliant. Herbert came here with me afterward--for five minutes."
"Ah! To get the taste of the party off his mouth, I suppose? He didn't say anything to you then about being tired of his London season?"
