— XXII —ON PUTNEY HEATH
It was the night before the wedding. The bride of the morrow and her mother had retired to rest. A restless fit possessed the expectant bridegroom.
“I’d not sleep if I went to bed, so what’s the use of going? If Rodway were here we might find something to say to each other. The last few days he seems to have had a troubled conscience. Possibly his duties of tomorrow weigh heavy on his soul.” Mr. Rodway was to give the bride away. It was not strange if, at close quarters, he found the prospect hard to contemplate. “But he’s not here. And in the house, alone with my own company, I seem to stifle. The night is fine. A tramp across the Heath may perhaps brush away the cobwebs.”
He went out. A clock struck one. Through the still, clear air the sound went swiftly. Othe
