Calderon stopped abruptly in the middle of that long road across the moor. Something had caught his eye as he walked—the slightest possible glitter at the side of the road, where the heavy sunlight was making even the stones throw tiny, dense shadows. He went back a step, intent upon discovering what it was that had disturbed his casual glance. There, half raised by a small mound of hardened dust, was a ring, a plain silver ring, the sight of which struck him as a dagger might have done. As he picked it gently from the roadway, and dusted it with his handkerchief, his fingers trembled. It was his wife’s ring. He had given it to her before their marriage, a memento of an exquisitely happy day. All the time they had been together she had worn it constantly: there had never been a time when she had not borne it upon her finger. The ring was full of memories for him—of memories that were painful now in their happiness because they belonged to a broken time. And these memories pressed upon his heart, stabbing him, as he stood thoughtfully in the roadway among the purple heather, gazing at the ring. His face had grown quite gray and hard, and his eyes were troubled.
For a moment he could do nothing but gaze at the ring, busy with his urgent thoughts. He could not yet wonder how the ring had come there, upon p. 184this lonely road from dale to dale. Behind him the road was white, narrowing through the heather, unshadowed by any tree. To right and left of him the moor stretched in purple masses until it darkened at the sky line. In front, the road began already to decline for the steep descent into Wensleydale. The grass could be seen ahead of him; and beyond it, far in the burning mist of the late afternoon, he saw gleaming, like quicksilver, a sheet of water. The wind came at that great height in powerful gusts, freshening the air, pressing warmly against his face and hands as pleasantly as water presses against the swimmer. No other person was in sight upon the moor: he was alone, with Evelyn’s ring in his hand, and poignant memories assailing him.
Calderon’s love for his wife had been as intense and as true as any love could be. Her love for him, more capricious, more ardent, had been as great. Yet in the fifth year of their marriage, such was the conflict of two strong personalities, they had quarreled vehemently, and had parted. Both had independent means, and both had many activities. Calderon had been working very hard for two years since the quarrel, and they had not met. The two or three letters exchanged early in their estrangement had never suggested a continued correspondence; and although he knew that his wife had been living in the eastern counties, Calderon had now no idea at all of her whereabouts. How strange that he should find upon this lonely road that precious ring! Engraved within it he read: “Evelyn: Maurice”—the inscription she had desired. Calderon sighed, slipping the ring into his pocket, and thoughtfully continuing upon p. 185his way. Was Evelyn before him, or behind him? Who could tell? They had never been together to Yorkshire. He most go as a blind man.
Then the question came to him: if they met, what had he to say to her? He knew no more of his journey down into Wensleydale, for the passionate unreasonings that overwhelmed him.
And then, when he was arrived in the little village to which the road over the moor leads, he again hesitated. So much depended upon his action. He must find Evelyn this evening, for his return to London was urgent. Already the shadows were growing long, and the evening was heavy. Which way should he go? Upon his choice might depend the whole course of his future life. For a few moments he halted, irresolute. Then he went slowly forward to the first inn he saw, his fingers playing in his waistcoat pocket with the little ring that had suddenly plunged him into the past. He thought it certain that the loss of it was accidental. She would not have kept the ring for so long, and she could not have brought it with her to Yorkshire, if she had intended to throw it away forever. And yet how came it upon the moorland road?
Calderon stopped outside the comfortable inn. It attracted him; but, as though he had put some kind of reliance upon telepathy, he felt sure that Evelyn was not there. Should he enter, make inquiry? No; he knew she was not there. His steps led him forward. As if he were trying to follow some invisible thread, he went onward, pausing no more, through the village, over to the other side of the dale, marveling at the heavy outline of Mount Caburn, silhouetted against the sky. He p. 186found himself upon a good road, with hedges on both sides. It was an adventure. He was following the bidding of his instinct. He did not really believe in it, Calderon told himself; it was too silly. There would be a disappointment, a sense of having been “sold”; and the morning would find him unsatisfied, with his single opportunity gone. Yet even while his thoughts poured doubt upon his action he was pursuing his way at a regular pace. How curious it was! It was as though there were two Calderons—one brain, the other overmastering instinct.
“You’ll see,” he warned himself. “Nothing will happen. You’ll have an uncomfortable night, and a trudge back in the morning. It’s no good. No good!”
Yet he continued upon his way beside the silent hedges, his knapsack upon his shoulder, his arms swinging, and the silver ring hidden in his waistcoat pocket.
It was quite dark when he reached Bainbridge. He knew well the aspect of the open common, because he had passed through it a dozen years before, and the place is unforgettable. There was a large green, he remembered, and the houses hedged the green, as they did at East Witton. He smiled at the memory and at the comparison. Yorkshire held such variety of scene, from east to west, that he could pick from among old associations a pleasant thought of every part of it. And here at Bainbridge he knew there was an old inn, quiet and spacious, where he might find Evelyn. She was not one to seek the smaller inns such as he would himself have chosen: she would endure the discomforts of loquacious companionship rather p. 187than those of primitive bathing arrangements. Had it not, then, been instinct which had led him here? Had it perhaps been a subconscious guessing at her inclinations? Calderon could not discuss that now. He was here; it was too late to go farther; he must endure whatever disappointment might be in store for him.
A bedroom was available; he was supplied with hot water, and he groomed himself as well as his small store of belongings allowed. Whimsically he foresaw a number of women in semi-evening dress, one or two men in suitably dark clothes, himself the only palpable “tourist.” There would be a solitary meal, as dinner time was past; and he would then seek among the company the owner of the silver ring. Calderon found himself laughing rather excitedly, even trembling slightly. Well, he would see what happened. He ventured down the stairs, nervously grinning at the thought that Evelyn might appear from any one of the doors along that silent passage.
When he reached the foot of the stairs he went instinctively to the door, to watch the two or three faint, sudden lights that started across the green out of a general blackness. It was a very dark night; clouds had come swiftly from the southwest, and the sky was entirely hidden. There was a wind, and he thought that as soon as it dropped the rain might begin to patter.
And then, while he was thus prophesying the weather, Calderon was held to the spot by a new sensation. Within, from some room which he had not entered, came an unknown voice, singing. The voice was sweet, but he did not listen; only the air that was sung made him follow the voice, words p. 188forming in his mind, as though he were himself singing:
“The little silver ring that once you gave to me
Keeps in its narrow band every promise of ours. . . . ”
Surely he was dreaming! He could not move. The clouds hurried; the darkness enwrapped him. He could not smile at a coincidence, because he could not believe that the song w............