Part 17

"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."

*CHAPTER XVI*

The morning came, the white-rimed marshland glittered in the morning sun, kittiwake and plover renewed their battle with the wind. The daylight faded and was gone, a glow of pink and yellow appeared in the west, green of sky deepened to blue, the sound of unseen wings clove the violet dusk overhead, and dim shapes stole phantom-like across the moon. The first day of the new life was past, and the gloom was not lightened but had become deeper, ever deeper, with the flitting of the hours.

With Hector's coming, the peace and happiness reigning over that Norfolk home had spread their wings and fled. There was something wrong, and everyone knew it, despite Lucy's strivings after concealment; but the instinct of the servant class is a hard thing to baffle, and, ignore it as she might, only too well did the mistress know that there was not one member of the household but was fully aware that between her and the master all was not harmony.

Further, she knew--and to Lucy's proud soul this was perhaps the hardest of all to bear--that, with one exception, they were with her and against Hector. The exception, of course, was the nurse, who maintained stoutly that they were all a pack of fools, and if misunderstanding there were, though for her part she could not see it, it was the fault of the mistress, to whom in consequence her manner became somewhat cold and distant. And for this Lucy loved her, and hated her self-constituted allies, snubbing their advances on all occasions and showering unnecessary favours on the haughty nurse. In vain, however, for in both directions did she fail: her allies continued to smile and sympathise; the enemy declined to be mollified.

Day by day the clouds thickened, and she realised that that which she had thought but a rift between her and Hector--an ugly rent maybe and one that, though healed, must ever leave a scar behind--was in reality a chasm, the depths of which she was unable to fathom. Hard though she fought to bridge it and cross over to where he was standing, it was all in vain; for the planks she stretched out fell uselessly from the farther edge, receding as they touched it, and the figure on the other side grew daily smaller and more indistinct. And Lucy might hope to cross that yawning chasm in vain, for that which lurked within it, pushing its sides asunder, was a lie unconfessed. If Hector would only confess and pluck the lie from the depths, no longer would the gulf widen, but remain fixed for her to bridge, could she but find the plank. If it were left, however, like an iron wedge it would sink lower, ripping and rending as it sank.

Of such a confession from Hector there was little hope now: the lie was almost out of sight already, and he wished it so buried. His brain reeled at the thought of further explanations, every jangling nerve clamoured for peace--peace; for that odd paralysis, which had seized upon his will the first night, had not lifted, as he had hoped, in the morning, rather had it tightened its hold, till now all power of resistance had left him and he had fallen to drifting without mast or oars on a grey, horizonless sea. Something would happen; it was for that he lived now; not for ever could he wander on like this; land must be viewed at last; and at the thought a ray of hope would glimmer above the grey monotony, and its beam for an instant strike warm on his heart.

Yes, sooner or later the end would come; Lucy would see and insist on his going, and not only offer to let him go, as she had done before. He forgot, in his own blindness, that Lucy too could not see, for he himself had taken away her sight. The days dragged on, grey and purposeless, and at last Lucy also began to despair. Do what she would, it was all useless. Unhappiness, unkindness even, she had been prepared for and would have known how to meet, but this dull apathy, this total lack of interest in life, it was that which crushed her.

He was so changed, too, from the husband of former years; his whole nature and tastes seemed to have undergone some strange transformation. All his assertiveness and intolerance had left him: she might advance what views she liked now--and often she did in the vain hope of awakening the old Hector--it was all to no purpose; he never contradicted or opposed. Even the laudation of newspapers, from which only had Lucy learnt of a certain event on board the _Dunrobin Castle_, was ignored by its object, and it was she, not Hector, as it would have been in former years, who sent for every paper dealing with the subject, and having read their contents to the assembled household, cut out the paragraphs, and, tying them up with stout ribbon, put them carefully away with a certain honours' list and other treasures.

The shooting also, from which she had anticipated such joy, failed to arouse any enthusiasm, and the peace of marsh and pool remained almost undisturbed by the bang of the Purdys. True, on one or two occasions he had gone out in answer to her frequent urgings, but he was all the time obviously thinking of other things, and screeching snipe and quacking mallard flew away only too often unscathed, even unseen, by the erstwhile vigilant eyes. Then, while the sun was yet high in the heaven, he would suggest a return home, and, once there, would shut himself up in his room, and read uninterruptedly till dinner, and after that silent meal till well into the night.

This, perhaps, was the most disquieting change of all, the transformation of the former restless, energetic Hector into a bookworm. Such books too: no less than three works on the doings of an uninteresting and seemingly insane person called Suvarov; a collection of medical works, or such they appeared to Lucy; and another, one she had found on his dressing-table one morning, a thin daintily-bound volume called "The Heifer of the Dawn." What a strange name, she thought and, taking it up, opened it, and then stood rigid, with her eyes fixed on the title-page. For a moment she remained looking, then with sudden passion tore the book across, and, thrusting the halves into the fire, stamped them into the burning coals with her foot.

"Oh, it's no use--no use at all," she thought drearily, and from that day abandoned the struggle and left it to be fought out by Ruby. And in no better hands could she have entrusted it, for indifferent to all else as Hector had become there was yet one who, whatever his mood, was always sure of a glad welcome, that one being his small daughter.

"Miss Ruby, sir," the nurse would say, breaking in upon him without ceremony, "and she's much better to-day, sir. I declare she's getting quite strong now her father's come home," and down would go Schopenhauer or Lombroso, and Hector, springing up, would rush at the little figure groping its way towards him, and, placing her on his knee, invent lame and improbable fairy stories, or carry her off to the stables for inspection--if such it could be called when one could not see--of the white pony and a certain grey rabbit, bought for her by him in the village.

At other times, when the black mood was on him, she would lie quite still in his arms, her hand now and again stroking his face, while she murmured words of sympathy and encouragement. For Ruby always knew and understood, and in those baby fingers lay a strength and power, which were rapidly growing, till in time they might have torn away Stara's grip on his heart, had the battle been left to her and Fate not interfered. As it was, she made a good fight for it, and very nearly won; for Hector, even thus early, had begun to ask himself the question, "Ruby or Stara?" And though the balance was still down on the one side, yet daily the other was drawing up.

At last, one bitter January morning, as the two sat in his room by the fire, she on his knee, the knowledge awoke within him, that, quivering, the scales hung level, and, knowing, for a moment he pondered, and then spoke.

"Ruby," he said. At his voice the child looked up quickly, for there was something tremendous coming, and she knew it at once.

"'Oo's frightened, daddy, 'oo's frightened at something. Tell Ruby." Her hands groped their way to his face and rested there. The balance went clashing down.

"Would you like me to stay with you always, Ruby, just you and I, and mother, and Peter?" Peter was the rabbit.

"James"--the yellow plush monkey--"too, daddy, and 'Iteing."

"James too, of course, and Whiting. Would you like it, Ruby, or ... shall I go away?"

"You're my daddy; I'se not let you go. Oh, daddy, daddy," and the thin arms were wound tightly round his neck, and the sightless eyes filled with tears, "you can't go, you shan't go. It's my burfday soon, and you promised to have tea wiv me, you and muvver."

"But, Ruby, dear."

"Oh, daddy, oh, daddy, 'oo promised."

Graeme rose and put her gently down. His face had grown ashen, but in his eyes shone a light such as none, not even Stara, had seen there before, a light that none ever saw again.

"I'll keep my promise, Ruby," he said, an odd ring in his voice. "I'll go now and tell mother. You wait here, dear, and take care of James till I come back," and Hector left her, and went on his way to tell "mother."

She was not in the house, the maid said; she thought she was in the garden. The girl looked rather hostile as she told him, more so than usual, he thought; but he paid no heed, for all that was to be at an end now, and passed out into the frozen garden, at the far end of which a figure could be seen pacing slowly up and down the gravel path. A bitter east wind was blowing, but neither hat nor wrap had Lucy, and, for the first time since his home-coming, Hector noted such things; a pang of self-reproach struck him, and he hurried on.

"Lucy dear," he said, drawing near, "you're mad to be out in the cold like this; come into the house and sit with me over the fire. I've got something to tell you, something I hope you'll be glad to hear. I've been blind, Lucy, but----"

"So have I been blind," and at the words Hector stopped, staring, for surely this was not the gentle Lucy, this white-faced woman, whose blue eyes glared at him?

"You liar! ... You unutterable liar!..." she went on in low, trembling tones. "Oh, don't speak, but look at that," thrusting out a slip of paper towards him. It was a cheque for L150, undated, and made out to the name of Miss Selbourne.

"Where did you find this?"

"In the pocket of one of your coats, the one you were wearing yesterday. Like a fool, I was looking over your things as ... as I used to do. That fell out."

"Lucy, this ... this is nothing."

"Nothing? You send this creature money, or were going to send it, it's the same thing, from here, your wife's house. You--you cad, Hector!"

A flame of anger appeared for a second in the man's eyes, his face grew white, but he mastered himself, and answered quietly enough:

"I was not going to send it, Lucy; that cheque was written six weeks ago. I forgot to date it, as I usually do my letters or cheques. The money was refused."

"Forgot? Refused? That sort of woman refuse money? You expect me to believe a wild, improbable tale like that. Oh, but I understand, though you think any lie is good enough for a poor trusting fool of a wife to believe. And it was, Hector, but--but not now."

"Wait, I've not finished. It's true that cheque was refused, but I insisted, and wrote another the same night, did not forget the date, and this time it ... was accepted."

"And you tell this to me, you stand there and own your vileness?"

"Yes, for I wish to tell you the truth, Lucy."

"Spare yourself the trouble. I don't believe you."

"As you please then, I don't care. Five minutes ago I did, but now----" He stopped suddenly and, turning away, stood with his back towards her, and then, the devil fought under, tried once more: "Lucy, won't you hear me, if not for my sake, then for ... Ruby's? I did lie to you that first night, or rather I let you believe what was not true, but my nerves were all to pieces, and I couldn't think or speak. I'll tell you the whole story now. It was for that I came out here."

"Yes, now that you're found out and caught."

The devil conquered. "Found out," before the fury in his voice Lucy's died, and fear sprang to life, "what do I care what you find out? I do love this woman. I thought just now I did not, but I was a fool, I do. I love her as I've never loved you, and--and I'm going back to her now."

"Hector, you're mad. You can't, you shall not--Hector?"

"You're too late, I came out with the full intention of telling you all, and, cur that I was ... giving her up. Oh, it was not for your sake, don't think it; it was for..." A spasm contorted his face for a moment, but in an instant passed, and he went on:

"Yes, for the first time in my life I was weak, but of that weakness you've cured me, and given me back my strength, and for that, my wife, I thank you. No more puling sentiment now for me; no more 'mummy and daddy'--hell's curse on you all!--but love ... life..."

"A life of sin, Hector, for, as God hears me, I'll never set you free now. Had you been honest with me from the first, as I implored you to be, I would have done it, but now--no!"

"Lucy, take care."

"Take care, why should I take care? What have I to care for now? Kill me if you like, Hector, it's the only way. I swear it. What stops you, my husband? You did it once before, and..."

"Twice."

"I dare say fifty times, and for far less reason. Kill me, I ask you, I'm not afraid to die. You won't? Then ... go." And Hector went.

At the hall door an uncouth figure was standing, awaiting him; it was Tom, bearing news of widgeon in the marshes and woodcock in the spinny, blown in by the gale last night, but the story was cut short. "Bring the cart round at once. Damn the widgeon!" answered his master, and hurried within. There was barely time to catch the train, but the devil was aiding him now, and ten minutes later dressing-case and portmanteau had been carried below and thrown into the waiting cart; and he was left standing in the room he was leaving behind for ever.

Dully his eyes rested upon the new guns reposing in their leather case, the wild grasses on the mantelpiece, and on his bed the yellow plush figure of James. For a moment he stood staring at the monkey, and then, snatching it up, thrust it away out of sight in his pocket, and hurried from the room. Down the stairs he went, through the black-and-white tiled hall, creeping like a thief past a certain closed door, and then into the cart and away at a gallop.

Rocking and swaying, they flew through the narrow lanes, rounding corners on one wheel, and shaving heavily-laden country carts. On through the village, scattering children and flocks of frightened geese, till at last the station was reached. Only just in time too, for the train was already on the move, but one push from the gleeful devil and Hector was across the platform and into the train; and three minutes later was lying a huddled heap in the corner, the flat green landscape around him sliding away into the past.

Tom sat gazing after him, with a look on his face that few had ever seen there before. He climbed slowly down, and, taking out a blanket, spread it carefully over the white pony's quarters, streaked with rivulets of sweat. For a moment he stood contemplating his quivering charge, and then his eyes fell on the golden sovereign lying in his hand.

"Curse your dirty money!" he said violently, and flung it far over an adjacent hedge into the field beyond.

* * * * *

Lucy remained, where they had parted, in the frost-blighted garden, her heart as numb and cold as the ground on which she stood. With stony eyes she gazed out over the marshland, shining in the winter sunlight; she saw the foam-flecked, cloud-shadowed sea, and heard the scream of gull and quavering cry of speeding curlew, and knew that as she loved it all once so she hated it now. For here, where she had looked forward to perfect happiness and union with one beloved, she had found nothing but a broken heart and faith shattered beyond recall.

As she stood there, a little figure came stumbling towards her, its face blue with the east wind and a wild terror in the sightless eyes.

"Daddy, daddy," she wailed, "'oo's gone, and 'oo's promised to stay wiv me," and, still calling and running blindly on, she struck an iron hoop guarding the border and fell headlong, her cries dying to a feeble moaning.

Passionate indignation against Hector shook Lucy at the sight, and, running forward, she lifted the child and held her close against her heart.

"Daddy's left us, Ruby," she said, "but you have me, your mother, still. Oh, darling, why did you come out here in the bitter cold? It was very wrong of you, Ruby," and Lucy hurried away, her burden clutched tightly in her arms.

"I want daddy! I want daddy!" And strive as she might, no effort of Lucy's could still those cries, which later became feebler, running off into snatches of song and prayers to God.

"Send for her father, ma'am," implored the nurse, her ruddy face white with anxiety. "You ought to, ma'am; it's criminal not to, and I say it, though I am only a servant."

Lucy bade her hold her tongue and not interfere, opposing the same sullen obstinacy to the doctor when he came.

"You're taking a very great responsibility on yourself then, madam," he said, being an outspoken man, though fond of little children, and, seating himself beside the cot, he fixed his keen eyes on the baby's face.

Then, at last, terror conquering pride, Lucy wrote out a telegram and sent it off, only to receive it back an hour later--it was too late, and the office closed.

A message, nevertheless, was next morning delivered to where Hector was sitting in his dingy hotel bedroom, a yellow plush monkey in his arms, and the devil vanquished at last. The message ran:

"Ruby died last night.--LUCY."

Hector stood looking at it, and then suddenly laughed, high-pitched laughter, long and loud, till with a crack it ended, and he fell forward on to the floor, where he lay motionless. And the devil beside him once more raised his head, came nearer, bent down, and began to whisper fast and low in his ear.

*CHAPTER XVII*

Richard Selbourne stood in front of his South African home, blankly surveying the cloudless heaven.

Over the white farm-buildings and tin-roofed kaffir huts a slumbrous peace was reigning, for it was the hour of noonday rest, and men and beasts alike lay placidly sleeping.

Clothing the shores of the great dam hard by--now shrunk to half its usual proportions--the feathery willows drooped motionless, as though in silent lamentation of its fallen estate; even the restless windmill had ceased from toiling, and save for an occasional dismal clonk, uttered seemingly in its dreams, slumbered with the rest.

Stretching away on all sides from the small oasis of trees, lucerne patches, and dam, forming Rosebank Farm, rolled a sea of yellow grass, from which stuck up, like islands, saw-like ridge and conical kopje, and beyond them could be seen a giant ring of brown, paper-like hills, their outline sharp-cut and rigid against a sky of hard vivid blue.

As he looked at the scene, a frown gathered on Richard's handsome face, and in impotent anger he shook his fist at the blandly-smiling heavens.

"Confound you!" he muttered, "why can't you hide your face and rain for once in a while? My lucerne's withering, the dam will give out in a fortnight, the beasts are dying in the fields. Gad, I came out here to get away from English mists and fogs, but I'd give something now to feel one of those same old yellow fogs in my throat again. England, London, shops, Club, Savoy--oh damn! I'll go in and sleep." Richard shook his smart person--for clad though he was in weatherbeaten garments, patched and stained, Selbourne possessed that indefinable air of "class," which ancient clothes but serve to emphasise--and walked slowly back to the house.

On the stoep the figure of a girl was standing, clad in a black-and-white homespun riding-skirt, a white drill jacket, and a large grey Terai hat. "Hullo, Stara," said Richard, seeing her; "now, what the blazes are you up to, not going out riding in this heat, surely? You'll get sunstroke to a moral, if you do. Hullo!" suddenly aware of something unusual in her appearance, "what have you done to yourself? Lord, you've got on a habit, what's up? Oh!" and Richard's mouth expanded into a grin; and he winked at his sister, whose face straightway became bright red.

"And why shouldn't I put on a skirt?" she answered with dignity. "I know I usually do not, but----."

"But now he's coming you do."

"Nothing of the sort, I put it on because it's cooler. Don't keep me, please. I'm going to meet the Cape cart, as you're too lazy. Where's Polly?"

"In bed and asleep, but I shouldn't worry if I were you. The boy ought to know his way by now. I'm afraid though, old girl, this pal of yours will have rather a dull time, nothing on earth to do but look at the sunset, and you, I suppose. What's the game, Stara, are you going to make a job of it at last? Tell your brother, my child."

Again the vivid blush, but with it now a sharp stab of pain. Make a job of it, yes. Tell her brother, not for a thousand worlds, though ten times a thousand would Stara have given to be able to say, "I'm going to marry him," instead of telling a lie--the first of many.

"There's nothing to tell you, Dick," she answered, looking away; "he's a friend, that's all. You know I have men friends without any thought of other things."

"I'm aware you have, though the poor devils themselves think differently, I should say. Never mind, old lady, you carry on and do what you like; it's no business of mine; and it's dull enough for you here, God knows, with only Polly and me."

"It is not, Dick, it is not, you must never think that, I love being here, and I--I hope you will like Colonel Graeme, though I'm afraid somehow he's not quite the sort of man you would."