Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1889-05-11
But 1 got no answering smile

from Celia.
1T would be much better to saddle the right
! horse. Dick. she said, sternly, land say that
| your temper got the better of YOU. We Dobsons
may be very inferior. vulgar race, but thank
| goodness we have not got the Blundell temper"
'.Oh. very well.' said, shortly; Il see you
wish to quarrel-so shall leave you to your
self to recover your temper, Dobson or Blum
dell. whichever it may ber' And walked out
of the room, slamming the door after me, and
feeling half sorry and half glad that Celia had
scorned the olive branch of reconciliation had
! held out to her.
now had fairly plausible grievance-at
least thought l had-and thrust my arms
! into my macintosh and took my umbrella out
| of the stand. with grim satisfaction in the
thought that by going out in weather like this
driven out into it by my wife's obstinate re-
| fusal 10 make friends-I should probably catch
q bad cold. All the dramatic possibilities OF
this imaginary cold filtered before my minds
eye in pleasing succession-chlls to the liver
pleurisy-rheumatic fever. Perhaps she will
be sorry them imuttered to myself as | shut
! the hall-door behind rue, and walked ostenta-
| tiously under the drawing-r room windows
whistiing as went, and striving to impart to
my features a perfectly unconcerned. ANAL
| BILE expression. L thought L heard tap at
the window, and my name called. but would
not look up. and strobe on with as much dig
nifty as l could command.
Once out of view of the windows, paused to
consider in which direction 1 should go to
| look fer the plearisy and rheumatism which
were to bring my erring wife to a sense of her
| misdoings.
might either go down to the sands. which as
! fa- rs could see outlined the coast under the
| dark overhangin8 cliffs. or l might follow the
! main road which passed through the struggling
village on into the country beyond. We had
come by 1t the night of arrival at St.
| Brldgets, and had a vague remembrance of
somewhat monotOnous unduating downs But
| Just at this moment the relative merits of in
| land and coast scenery Interested me compare
lively little. IN toss up l said to myself.
Heads the road-tails the sands'
| Heads it was. SO off set along the road I
passed through the village and walked on for
some distance. mentally matchmaking Mat
/ thew Dobson for having decoyed me into such
dead-allve kind of place. Nothing could be
more depressingly commonplace than this we'll
| kept road. with its close-cropped downs on each
side, and its telegraph poles recurring at regu-
| lar intervals. But any great wealth of scenery
would haye been thrown away upon me just
then, for all my faculties were employed in a
| hand-to-hand encounter with the clements
The wind seemed to take malicious pleas
! ure III trying to tanSle me up in my macintosh
| by driving the Tapping tails in between my
| legs and by getting under the cape and whirl-
ing 1T over my head and about nv ears in a
most bewildering fashion. Then. no sooner
| had reduced the cape to comparative submits
sion than stronger gust than before lifted nv
hat of my head and sent it spinning along the
| road III front of me.
| L know time when a man looks more
thoroughly ridiculous than when he is in pur-
suit of "a runaway hat. With that tiendish de-
light it waits until you have actually stopped
to pick it UP. and then how aggravatingly it
| bounds and SKINS on for few more PAGES only
to repeat the same process. until some kindly
eddy carries 1T into a corner which it cannot
| escape!
No less than three times did the wind play
me this nasty trick, and at last in desperation
L drew out my silk handkerchief and tied it
| securely over the refractory head-gear and
under my chin, painfully conscious of what nv
! appearance must be, and devoutly thankful
that by no possibility could Celia see me from
the villa windows. With such get-,lp dignity
was incompatible, and had come to the con-
cluSion that mixture of dignity and injured
! innocence was the most fitting attitude for me
! TO adopt toward her.
was now able to look about me with toler-
able comfort was going up a slight incline
| In the road On each side of me were the IN
varying, undulating downs. but certainly the
road was considerably narrower than that upon
which L had set out to walk on leaving the
village, ana the telegraph poles, which had
then noticed. were now conspicuous by their
absence. | was puzzled to account for this at
first, but then remembering the chases after
my hat, l came to the conclusion that in the
excitement OF one of them l must have strayed
| OIL the main road on to a side one
| was all the better pleased was sure to
meet some one, or to pass some cottage where
! l could ask my way home, and, in the mean
time, the uncertainty to my whereabouts
| gave just that element of interest to my walk
that had been wanting before.
Altogether, felt in better spirits. had
walked off my bad temper to great extent and
began to think that perhaps. after all | had
| been tribe unreasonable and rude to Celia
A feeling OF remorse at having left her all
| alone in the stupid little villa took possession
of me, and would have turned straight back
| by the way had come to seek for reconcilia-
ton, if sudden bend of the road had not
| brought me unexpectedly in view of the sea-
must have been walking in something of a
| ring, and also must have been gradually as
| cending since left the village, for now found
myself on the top of one of the cliffs overlook
| ing the sands. The road here took a sudden
! dip, and apparently led down to the shore by a
| series OF rather steep Zig-Zags.
1t would now, 1t seemed to me, be much
| shorter to make my way home by the shore
| At any rate there was a cottage a little way
! down the hill, and could find out there which
was my best way to get back to st. Bridgets
| was pleased to see as 1 looked round, that
on all sides there were the signs of a clear-up
| on the part OF the weather. The wind seemed
| to have gone round to some more favorable
point, for though still blowing hard, it did not
now bring with 1t the driving showers of rain
| The clouds out to windward were lifting and
| there was even every now and then a watery
| CLEAN of sunshine. The fresh salt smell of the
seaweed. which was waited up to me where |
was standing, was invigorating, and the occa-
slonal scream of a seaSull as it dipped I'D and
down on an incoming wave. had a peculiar
charm of its own, which could not help being
conscious of.
hurried down to the little cottage. The
door was ajar. knocked. but got no answer
! SO pushed 1t open, and saw, seated before the
| lire, an old woman, who apparently did not
hear my entrance, for she went on with her
knitting without even turning her head
| Good evening, ma am" | said.
| Still no sign that she heard me. walked
over to her and gently touched her arm. She
| started round then, and her ball of worsted
| jumped off her lap and rolled on the floor. l
picked it up for her.
Can you tell me which is the nearest way to
st. Bridgets?" / asked
''Eh?" she answered. putting her hand to her
ear.
(Which is the shortest way to st. Bridgets?"
l reiterated louder.
| AYE! thee must speak louder if thee wants
| me to hear I'm an old Communication
come Michaelmas-and I'm deaf these twenty
years and more. Nay! nay!' as made another
| equally fruitless attempt to make myself heard:
IF there's aught thee wants to know thee'd
best go down to the shore. Bill. he's there and
a fine lad he is, though says it as shouldn't,
| being his mother. I'm an old 'ooman. am
ninety-one come Michaelmas, and"
did not wait for further "reminiscences.
saw it was hopeless to elicit further information
| from her, and set off down to the shore. trust
ing to find 'Bill' and to get more lucid direc-
tions from him as to my best way home.
| had not walked far along the sand when T
| came uDOn 1sthe fine lad a prav- bo;ra1 -,