Chapter XV
The north wind blew keen and lusty over the Norfolk marshland, bending the lush grass and sedge and ruffling the surface of dyke and pool. Overhead there was a sky of pale blue dappled with white and grey, from which shone forth the yellow ball of a December sun.
Tossed in the wind, flocks of screaming plover and white kittiwake flew aimlessly over the green flat; the plaintive cry of a lonely curlew rang eerily as he scudded swiftly along the foreshore. Now and again a sturdy mallard could be seen stoutly battling his way against the wind towards some rush-covered sanctuary, quacking triumphantly as he hung for a moment over it, and then, dropping, was lost to view. Away to the east a low, ragged line of sandhills broke the green monotony, beyond which lay a foam-flecked jade-coloured sea, streaked and mottled with ever-shifting shadows of purple and ultramarine.
Some two miles inland the square, white shape of a house could be seen nestling in a clump of trees, an unpretentious-looking place, despite its appellation of Hall—Cuddingfold Hall, to give it its full title—but solidly built and comfortable, nevertheless. This was the home of which Lucy had written to her husband, and here for the last four months she had been installed, living now in one room, now in another, for painters, paperers and their kind had been plying their respective trades, and life had been full of discomforts.
Their work had been at last completed, and even to Lucy’s exacting mind Cuddingfold Hall had been transformed from a ramshackle human warren into an almost perfect dwelling-place. In spite of the somewhat extensive improvements carried out, it was only for twelve months she had rented the Hall, but she had the option of taking it on at the end of that time for seven, twenty-one, or ninety-nine years, if she wished.
That, however, was for her husband to decide—the husband who was arriving that evening after more than three years’ absence. Of his decision she had no doubt whatever, but Lucy, in her own way, was wise, and refrained from signing any lease; she knew that to do so without his consent would be more than likely to inspire him with an instant distaste for the place—partridges and ducks notwithstanding. To bind Hector, meant for him to chafe against his bonds and the certain rupture of them.
She would leave him to do it, and, if she knew him aright, that very night would see a letter, nay, a telegram, despatched to the land agent, to the effect that Colonel Graeme would take Cuddingfold Hall for a term of ninety-nine years. Take it? No, he would certainly insist on buying it, and rush up next morning to his bankers, for the purpose of raising the necessary sum. She could hear him say, “What’s the good of paying rent, Lucy? Much better buy; it’s always cheaper in the end.”
Well, if he wanted to, why not? He must certainly not be allowed to raise the money, for that would not be cheaper in the end. It would only result in a financial crisis, as had happened once before, and an ignominious abandonment of their new home before the year was out; and here, at the thought of her husband’s business capacity, an irrepressible smile stole over Lucy’s face.
No, she had her plan, that being to buy the place herself and give it to him as a present. She had a little money of her own, which had come to her from her mother, and already Lucy had approached the trustees on the subject of reinvestment. They had demurred, it is true, her uncle, the General, being strongly averse to any scheme giving Hector control over his wife’s property; but Lucy, as once before, had conquered, and eventually he, with his co-trustee, had agreed. After all, they decided, it was house property, this proposed new investment, and as such allowable under the trust; and, at any rate, the General would take good care that the place was settled upon his niece and that that fellow, as he always designated Hector, should have no chance of laying his hands on it. And so the matter had been left till Graeme’s arrival.
On the afternoon of that event, Lucy was sitting on a rush-covered bank, happily dreaming of the time when this estate of marsh and sandhill would be their own. Here, she thought complacently, watching the wheeling birds, they would settle down for life, and partings and war scares would be nightmares of the past. She would have her rose garden, Hector his shooting, and later, she hoped, a seat in the House, and perhaps in time they might—oh Heaven, how she prayed for it—be given a son. Here Lucy’s smile died and the blue eyes clouded. A son, a strong, straight-limbed boy, not like Ruby; and at the thought of her, their only child, a sudden passionate feeling of revolt came over Lucy and her eyes filled with angry tears.
“Why,” she thought bitterly, “should such a thing have happened to me? I was so looking forward to her coming too, and was so very very careful. It was not my fault, or that of my ancestry; we have always been strong and healthy. Oh, my God, how am I to tell him? I was mad to keep it from him, but it looked so awful in a letter. What will he say when he sees her—he so intolerant of weakness and disliking children at any time? And all these years I expect he’s been wondering what she’s like, picturing her as a round, rosy child, who’ll want to romp with him and pull his hair. Ruby, romping! Oh,” a sudden revulsion of feeling coming over her, “what a brute I am, wicked and unnatural. It’s not her fault, poor mite; and if I, her mother, run her down, who’s to take her part? And perhaps Hector won’t take it so hardly; he’ll be kind to her, even if he can’t love her—Hector could never be anything else. And he won’t see much of her; she’ll be in her nursery all day; this cold would kill her at once, poor child.”
With a sigh, she rose from the bank and made her way back to the house, when for the hundredth time that day she ran through the preparations for her husband’s coming, and then, after a short visit to the nursery, went to her room to dress. The sudden chiming of the clock startled her, and hurrying over the last stages of her toilet she flew downstairs, impatiently calling for the pony-cart, though it was not due for a quarter of an hour. Rapidly her anxiety was becoming a fever from waiting when at length the trap appeared. Hastily mounting, she took the reins, and, whipping up the white pony, sent him along at his best pace to the station.
Here, as she might have known, had excitement not rendered reflection impossible, she arrived a good half-hour too soon, a time of waiting that would certainly be prolonged to at least one hour—the trains on that line being remarkable for a monotonous unpunctuality. However, with the aid of a little conversation with the station-master, a thorough perusal of the texts decorating the one dingy waiting-room, and some twenty minutes of sentry-go up and down the platform, the time was at length got through.
The sharp tinkling of a bell broke the silence, the sound of wire rustling at her feet was followed by the clack of a falling signal, and then a faint humming growing gradually louder. Far down the line a yellow point could be seen, another shot out beside it, the humming swelled to a roar, and with the rush of a whirlwind the train dashed past Lucy, a flare of yellow lights flying giddily by.
“Heavens, it’s going on!” she gasped, dismayed; “they’ve forgotten to stop it. No, it isn’t, though,” as the rattle died down and the mass of wood and iron came to a rest at last. “There he is,” and Lucy, dignity forgotten in joy, ran up the platform to where a man was standing gazing vacantly about him.
“Hector, darling, oh, Hector, at last, after all these years!” she began, and then stopped suddenly, an icy finger seeming to touch her heart, for this man who stood before her, though bearing her husband’s features, was surely a stranger; yet, no, he was speaking to her, addressing her by name, though the voice too was unfamiliar.
“Oh, Lucy,” he said, “is that you, how are you?”
“Hector... what on earth’s the matter, aren’t you glad to see me? Oh, darling, you’re ill; you look half dead,” and conviction gaining upon her as she looked, the sudden terror of the unknown died in Lucy’s heart and was replaced by a rush of protecting tenderness. She took his arm, her face looking up into his, a world of loving anxiety in her eyes.
“It’s nothing, Lucy. I’m only tired; I’ve been up since dawn.”
“Of course you have, dear, I forgot; and I know I was the same, Hector—so excited. I thought the daylight would never come. And then the day, how it’s dragged; but it’s all over at last, and your...” Again a sudden stop, again the icy finger at her heart, for her husband had turned sharply away, and a ghastly silence followed.
“Porter—where’s the porter?” muttered Hector. “Oh, there you are, get my things out, will you? Not that one, you fool, where to? God knows—I don’t, when’s the next train back to town?”
“Ain’t no more to-night, sir, Colonel, that is, beg pardon, sir,” said the man, staring at him and then questioningly at Lucy, whom he knew and liked well, as did already all the natives of Cuddingfold village.
“Take them to the luggage cart, Sims,” said Lucy, her voice become suddenly level; “the Colonel’s tired with his long journey; and you,” smiling at Hector, “come with me. That’s our trap standing over there with the white pony. Get in; I’ll drive you; he knows my hand, and he’s always a little playful at starting. Good-night, Sims; tell your wife I’ll be round to see the new baby soon. Steady boy,” to the dancing pony; “that’s right,” and the two drove away. For the first mile there was silence, and then, like a pistol-shot, words burst from Hector’s lips.
“What’s his name, Lucy?” he asked, the triviality of the question being in odd contrast to the voice that asked it. But triviality was now what Hector was fighting for with all his power, conversation on purely ordinary matters; for in that way only, he knew, could he keep off the numbing sense of unreality that was creeping over him—a nightmare feeling rapidly sapping the strength of purpose that till then had burnt so strong and steadily.
“I have come to do this thing, and I will; I’ll be firm, firm, firm,” he repeated to himself, and the word mingled with the rattle of the flying wheels and were flung back at him in meaningless echo. Apparently miles away, he heard Lucy’s voice answering some question he had put, and which now he could not for his life remember.
“His name, dear?” she said cheerfully. “I call him Whiting, because he’s white; and when he’s fresh his head and his tail come together. Not very clever, I fear; but then I’m not clever, as I told you once...” She broke off, a sudden stab at her heart. When had she said this very same thing before? Ah, she remembered, at Chillata, that last night; what thousands of years ago it seemed now. “It made Tom laugh,” she added hurriedly.
“Tom?”
“He’s the groom, and the gardener and hoot-boy and the keeper and all sorts of other things. He’s rather a treasure, really, though not much to look at. He’s so looking forward to your coming; we—we all are, Hector.”
“How—how is——?” God, he’d forgotten his own child’s name!
“Ruby?”—a pause. “Oh, you’ll see her presently, and I—I hope you won’t be disappointed, Hector. A baby, you know, very often at first is—is not... But I want to tell you about the shooting. It’s what you’ve always wanted: miles of marsh, and such a lot of ducks, you can hear them quacking every night; and to-day a flock of widgeon passed over the house, within shot too. And there are partridges and pheasants, though not many; and the house—oh, Hector, you’ll like the house,” and here Lucy launched out into a description of her property, though truth to tell, she had very little idea of what she was saying.
Only on two points was she clear: one, that at all hazards silence must not again be allowed to fall; the other, that she must hold back for the present from any questioning of her husband as to what had brought about this change in him. God knew what the thing was that had come between them, but, whatever it was, she would hear in time, that was certain; for, thank heaven, whatever her husband’s other failings might be, that of deceit was not among them. Till then she must wait as best she could, and, when it came, face and fight it with all the strength in her power. A great crisis was at hand, she knew instinctively, one involving her whole life’s happiness; and Lucy was not going to give that up without a struggle.
She might not be clever—she knew she was not—but she was the possessor of a fund of sound common sense and the pluck and staying power of a hundred. And so, as if unaware that there was anything amiss, she chatted on cheerfully, the light trap flying through the country lanes, till at length a pair of white wooden gates were reached. Passing through these, they rattled along a short carriage drive, finally pulling up in front of the house, through the open doors of which a stream of light shone out into the darkness.
At the sound of the wheels a rosy-cheeked maid came bustling out, all smiles and anxiety to help; while from the stables close by a queer-looking creature hastened, wiping his mouth with his sleeve—he had been disturbed in the middle of his tea—and, having touched his cap and grinned sheepishly at Graeme, seized the pony by the bridle and led him away to stable and oats. This person was Tom, of whom Lucy had spoken, a Norfolk man born and bred, and a stranger to towns and their ways. Not a gentleman’s servant in appearance possibly—his multitudinous duties forbade that—but an honest and devoted creature nevertheless, and one who had already identified himself with Cuddingfold Hall and its interests.
The arrival of his new master was an event in Tom’s life, one he had looked forward to for many weeks; for though contented enough—as were all Lucy’s servants—in his present post, he had felt that a man was wanted about the place, one who would be up and after those feathered denizens of marsh and pool, the thought of whose undisturbed serenity had of late begun to get on Tom’s nerves. But now that the master had arrived, the master of whose prowess with the gun he had heard so much and often, he felt, strangely enough, a bitter sense of disappointment. This was not the hero he had expected, this white-faced haggard man, who had not so much as looked at him or noted his greeting, but without a word had descended from the cart and walked stiffly into the house.
Something was also wrong with the mistress; the brightness had gone from her face, and she had also omitted her usual “good-night.” Tom was not given to fancies, but, like most of those whose natural instinct has not been stifled by a smattering of education, he, in common with the beasts and birds he loved, knew things intuitively, and that intuition made him aware of a strong feeling of repulsion towards his new master. In vain did he fight against it—it remained; and Tom’s ruddy face was strangely overcast as he unharnessed the white pony and shook out his evening feed of oats; nor was his whistle quite so shrill and cheerful as it generally was when performing that operation.
Hector, meanwhile, was left standing alone in the black-and-white tiled hall, for Lucy, on their entrance, had disappeared and the maid was already busy on her knees upstairs with the unpacking of portmanteaux. But now that he was alone and had time to marshal his thoughts, for which he had been praying all through that nightmare drive, the same deadening sense of unreality descended on his mind like a pall, and he stood there, his brain a whirling chaos. Only a few hours before he had felt himself to be of steel, inflexible of will and insensible to all human emotions save that of love; he had even gloried in what he meant to do, as marking him out as a man above his fellows, in that for him conventional scruples had no meaning, and bonds deemed unbreakable he could tear asunder without a pang.
He had told Stara—and had believed what he said—that this was nothing to him. But in the exaltation of that moment he had overlooked two things: the one, the power of old associations over the human mind; the other—the curse of natures such as his—nerves, a legacy bequeathed to him, amongst other things, by his mother, and the revolt of which means paralysis to the strongest will. In vain did Hector call upon that will, it would not answer; in vain did he repeat that this was nothing; old associations told him he lied, and bade him look around and see what this thing was he was about to do.
They pointed to the thousand and one evidences of womanly love and forethought: the spotless cleanliness and comfort of the old firelit hall, the gleam of brass and pewter ornaments, the polish on oak and mahogany. The scales fell from Hector’s eyes, and he knew that this same nothing was in reality a horror, growing in intensity with the passing of the minutes, and at the thought of which his coward nerves now quivered and shrank.
Only too well did he realise, standing here, what his homecoming meant to Lucy; the care she had lavished on this place to make it a home, such as he would like; the pride with which she had looked forward to welcoming him to it. All this was his; he was the master here whom all were anxious to serve; no longer was he a mere irresponsible officer of cavalry, but the head of a household—a man to be looked up to and respected. Respected? He? Why, the very servants who now waited so smilingly upon him would turn from him with loathing did they know his purpose; and soon they must know it, and to-morrow all would be changed.
At the thought, a sudden wave of hatred of himself came over him, and with it a sense of moral uncleanness and unfitness to be in this innocent, harmless household. He bowed his head and shuddered where he stood. Nevertheless, despite his present tortures, he knew that do this thing he would; for his will was but paralysed for the moment by shattered nerves, and it remained the while unchanged; only it was harder, infinitely, immeasurably harder than he had thought. Then he heard the sound of Lucy’s voice from above, and, looking up, he saw her from the gallery overhead smiling down upon him, and there was something in her smile that made Hector wince.
“Come up here, will you, Hector?” she said, and the cheerfulness in her voice rang false; “I have something to show you.” Without a word, Hector mounted the stairs and joined her.
“What is it, Lucy?” he said dully.
“It—it’s Ruby; I want you to see her now, at last; and—and, Hector, you will try not to be disappointed, won’t you? She—she’s not a very strong child, and there’s something... wrong.”
“Wrong, what do you mean?”
“Oh, I know I ought to have told you, and I tried to many times, but... couldn’t. Go in now and see for yourself, and please try and not show you... you notice, Hector.”
“Where is she?”
“That door there. No, no, I won’t come in with you; don’t ask me, Hector, for I can’t,” and Lucy hurried away, leaving Hector standing before a red baize-covered door. Faintly curious, he knocked, and a voice said, “Come in.” He entered, and then stood staring. In a high chair, drawn up close to the fire, a small pale-faced child was sitting, holding in her arms a yellow plush monkey, to which she was softly singing. As Hector entered, she turned quickly, and at the sight of her eyes the new-comer muttered “Good God!” and clutched at a chair.
“Yes, sir,” said the nurse, watching him, “she can’t see you; she was born like that. It’s your father, Miss Ruby, come to see you and say good-night to you. I think, sir,” turning again to Hector, who was still standing motionless, “perhaps you had better go now; she’s not very strong, sir, and if distressed...” But the nurse stopped, astonished; for Hector, unheeding, had suddenly stumbled forward, and, picking up the little child, whose thin arms closed round his neck, was crying over her like a woman.
Hastily the nurse rose up, thimbles, needles, and work falling unheeded on the floor, and rushed headlong from the room and downstairs to the kitchen, where she was soon sobbing loudly in the cook’s arms.
“I’ll never forget it, Martha, not if I live to be a hundred. Him disappointed, him not love the child! Why, from the moment he set eyes on her, he just made one rush and—and... Oh, he’s a good sort is that man, Martha, a right down good fellow,” and again she sobbed aloud, the cook also weeping in sympathy. Nor, may it be here remarked, did the nurse ever subsequently change her opinion, but, deaf to all argument and blind to proof, maintained always that the master was a good master, let them say what they liked, and, if some folk weren’t rightly able to understand him, that was their fault, not his.
Above, in the firelit nursery, father and daughter made friends; for the incredible had happened, and Hector had taken to this poor weakling as he would never have done to the sturdy, healthy romp prayed for by Lucy. Perhaps in little blind Ruby he recognised the physical incarnation of his own twisted soul, perhaps in some dim way he knew that to him and him only her infirmities were owing, but, be this as it may, his heart went out to her and hers to him.
Here, where he had least expected one, he had found a friend, and forthwith his tortured nerves were calmed and his working brain at rest; and he opened out his mind to this baby as to one his equal in years and knowledge. And the blind eyes were kept fixed on his own, and the thin hands stroked his face, as she murmured words of sympathy, possibly wondering what all this might mean and possibly comprehending, for God and his angels alone know what little children do understand.
An hour passed and still the two sat there, though in silence now, for the sightless eyes were closed and Ruby was happily dreaming; then the door opening noiselessly, the snuffling nurse stood on the threshold, and behind her Lucy, her eyes wide with wonderment and a certain awe at the marvel Heaven had brought to pass. In silence she followed Hector from the room, and when the door had closed behind them, and they stood in the passage outside, she turned and laid her hands on his breast.
“Hector,” she said very low, “you have taught me a lesson. I have been so wicked about her, dearest, so unnatural; but from to-night I—I will make amends.” She leaned towards him, but Hector started back, his eyes wild. For a moment he stood staring at her, and then sharply turning left her, and a minute afterwards was lying face downwards on the bed in his dressing-room, his hands gripping the iron frame-work and his face rigid with pain.
Here Lucy, entering half an hour later, all pale blue and white lace, found him, but paid no heed, only rallied him gently for being late the first night of his return, and said, “Do you like my present? Oh, never mind; to-morrow will do, it isn’t much really, only, oh, Hector, do please look at them,” and Lucy flew to a large brown paper parcel lying ignored on the floor, and on which was inscribed in large letters: “To HECTOR, WITH LUCY’S LOVE.” “They’re something you’ve always wanted,” she ran on, her slender fingers busy with knots as she spoke, “and I’ve always wished to give you, but never been able to till now. There—” as the last wrapping of paper was torn off and the lid of a brown leather case revealed and lifted—“don’t—don’t you like them?” looking rather anxiously at Hector, who was staring silently down at a pair of shining Purdy guns, delights which in the past he had often longed for but had never been able to afford. At least three years of close saving on Lucy’s part did this gift represent, for well he knew that not one penny of the price had been taken from his own money; out of her own small income alone had these toys been bought.
“They’re all right, Hector, aren’t they? They’re ejectors, you see,” fingering the barrels of one as she spoke; “and there are plenty of cartridges downstairs—Kynochs brass. No. 6, the ones you always used to use. And to-morrow we’ll try them, won’t we? Oh, I’m so looking forward to to-morrow, I do hope it will be fine, and then you and I and Tom...” She stopped suddenly, for Hector had again turned away from her and was leaning against the mantelpiece, staring into the fire.
“Hector,” touching his shoulder, “won’t you, can’t you tell me now, dear?”
“No—no, not now—later. Leave me, Lucy; I’ll join you in a minute.” And Lucy without a word left him.
Dinner was over, and wrath reigned in Martha’s ample bosom, for the skill and knowledge of a life-time had gone to the preparing of this night’s repast, and bitterly she felt that all her talent had been wasted. “Mark my words, Eliza,” she said to the kitchen maid, “there’s something wrong with a man as don’t relish a beautiful dinner like this. There’s that vol-o-vong, the souffly too, came down untasted. It ain’t in nature, Eliza—it ain’t; and ’im too just back from furrin parts. Oh, I’ve not patience with him, nor yet with the Missus either,” and she shut the oven door with a bang.
Upstairs, in the softly-lighted drawing-room, Lucy and her husband were sitting looking into the fire. Silence had fallen, for the woman’s chatter, sustained uninterruptedly during the meal, had ceased at last, and the time had come for the one to hear and the other to tell. Now she sat waiting, with nerves braced and every faculty alert and ready for battle.
The minutes ticked away, but still the silence remained unbroken, for by now all coherence of thought had left Hector, and, strive as he would, no sequence of thought would come. In vain did he try to call up Stara’s face to strengthen him; in vain did he repeat that this was mere weakness, and that carry this thing through he must; he could say the words as much and as often as he liked, but no resolution lay behind them—they were but as ghosts.
The exaltation of the night before; the long train journey; the meeting with Lucy; and then the final blow dealt by a pair of thin baby hands—all had told; and now, when he had most need of them, strength of purpose and clearness of thought were gone.
Suddenly Lucy rose, and, moving swiftly across to him, knelt on the hearth at his feet, her bright eyes fixed on his.
“Dear, tell me,” she whispered, “as you promised; I am your wife, remember, and have the right to know. I don’t mind what it is, Hector, so that you tell me.”
“Lucy, I can’t, I meant to, God knows; but now the time’s come, I can’t think—my head’s whirling. Give me till to-morrow, Lucy, I will tell you then, I swear.”
“And you think, Hector, I could wait till to-morrow,” said Lucy passionately, “oh, how can you be so inhuman? Surely, surely, it can’t be so hard a thing as this, that you can’t tell me, your wife of ten years. Oh, my dearest,” and Lucy put her arms round his neck, “we have never had secrets from each other, like most husbands and wives.”
“This is different, Lucy.”
“Is it money... gambling? If so, I can help you. I have——”
“It’s not money, Lucy.”
“Something you’ve done in the regiment, then, have—have they cashiered you, Hector? If that’s it, I don’t mind a bit. I always hated the regiment; it was never a good enough one for you.”
“It’s nothing of that sort, Lucy.”
Lucy stared at him, her brow knit in thought; then suddenly her arms fell from his neck and she sank, a huddled heap, on the hearth-rug.
“It’s... another... woman, Hector?”
“Yes.”
Silence, and then the bowed figure straightened itself, and the light of battle once more came into her eyes. She would fight this out to the end.
“Tell me about it, Hector,” she said steadily, “everything, please. I want the whole story, nothing kept back whatever.”
Hector began, a recital very different from that arranged in his mind only a few hours before. “Lucy, when I left South Africa, three weeks ago, I could say, what very few husbands can to their wives, that I had never been unfaithful to you.”
“You needn’t tell me that; I know it. Go on.”
“But on the ship—the—the—I can’t think of the name—I met her... and——”
“Her, who?”
“Never mind that, Lucy; it would do no good telling it... and we—she and I got to care for each other, and—and—that’s all, Lucy. Oh, for God’s sake, don’t let’s go on now.”
“Is that all, Hector? Was she—this woman—good? There was no—no wickedness, you understand me, Hector, don’t you?”
“There was none.”
“Thank God!” she breathed, and then a pause followed.
“Where is she now, dear?”
“I don’t know—in London somewhere, I believe; she returns to Africa in a few days.”
“And you, Hector, what do you mean to do, to go back with her? If so, tell me now, and—and...” Lucy paused, and then went on, “if that’s what you really want, Hector, if it—it’s not only a passing infatuation, and you feel you cannot live without this woman, I—I will help you, dear.”
“What do you mean?”
“This, that I am too proud, Hector, to keep you tied to me against your will. I—I don’t look upon marriage as some do, as a chain which nothing can break. Love’s the only chain I recognise, and if that is broken between us I will set you free, Hector.”
“You want to get rid of me, is that it, Lucy?”
“Oh, my God, Hector, if there is but a chance, the merest atom of hope, I would cling to it, but I—I don’t think there is, somehow. Hector, is there?”
Here was the way made easy, here were the obstacles lying down of their own free will to let him pass, and yet, strangely enough, it was this very ease that conquered Hector now and dealt the final blow to resolution.
Had Lucy opposed him, had she but hinted that the bond between them was indissoluble, Hector’s soul would have risen in instant rebellion, and with rebellion would have come strength to act. But Lucy’s love for once had made her subtle, and so, there being no opposition and nothing to fight, the sword remained useless in the scabbard.
“Hector,” she went on, and her lips were now set in a firm straight line, “tell me, are you going back with this woman to South Africa or not?”
Hector’s groping hands snatched at the dangling rope and held on. “She is going back alone,” he muttered; “there was never any thought of our returning together.”
For a full minute Lucy knelt looking at him, her blue eyes searching his soul; then again her arms went around his neck, and she broke into a passion of weeping.
“Thank God, oh, thank God!” she murmured; “you’re my Hector still; forgive me, dearest, for having doubted you. I ought to have known that you, of all men, would never be guilty of dishonour or treachery to me. Oh, it was hateful of me, hateful.”
“Lucy, wait. I—I——”
“No, you’ve been brave and true, Hector; you’ve fought temptation and conquered it, and I honour you for it and love you a thousand times more than before. And—and she, oh, don’t turn away; I wouldn’t speak ill of her for the world. I will pray for her, and ask God to comfort her, for she—she must be a good woman, Hector, far—far better than I am. I would never have given you up had I been her.”
“For God’s sake stop, Lucy; you—you’re wrong.”
“No, Hector, I won’t; my heart’s too full of gratitude to God and her, and—and, dear——”
“Well?”
“I should like some time, if you’ll let me, to write to her and send her some little thing from me and Ruby to show her I know and sympathise; for we, Ruby and I, owe her so much—so much. And you, you poor boy, I’ll help you through. I will be patient and tactful, dear, and won’t expect things... yet. But it will all come back again, won’t it—your love, I mean—and I haven’t taken it so badly, have I? Oh, for God’s sake, dearest, don’t you break down,” for Hector’s head had fallen forward on his hands and his whole body was quivering. “Come upstairs now and sleep. To-morrow the sun will be shining and we’ll start afresh, Hector, you and I and... Ruby.”