"It's a clear case of desertion," declared Cynthia imperturbably, two
months later. "But never mind that now, Jack. How do you like my sling?
Isn't it just the cutest thing in creation?"
"You look splendid," Babbacombe said with warmth, but he surveyed her
with slightly raised brows notwithstanding.
She nodded brightly in response.
"No, I'm not worrying any, I assure you. You don't believe me, I see. So
here's something for you to read that will set your mind at rest."
Babbacombe read, with a slowly clearing face. The note he held was in
his agent's handwriting.
"I am leaving you to-day, for I feel, now you are well again, that
you will find it easier in my absence to consider very carefully
your position. Your marriage to me was simply an act of impulse. I
gave way in the matter because you were in no state to be thwarted.
But if, after consideration, you find that that act was a mistake,
dictated by weakness, and heaven knows what besides of generosity
and pity, something may yet be done to remedy it. It has never been
published, and, if you are content to lead a single life, no one
who matters need ever know that it took place. I am returning to my
work at Farringdean for the present. I am aware that you may find
some difficulty in putting your feelings in this matter into words.
If so, I shall understand your silence.
Yours,
"N. V. WEST."
"Isn't he quaint?" said Cynthia, with a little gay grimace. "Now do you
know what I'm going to do, Jack? I'm going to get a certain good friend
of mine to drive me all the way to Farringdean in his motor. It's
Sunday, you know, and all the fates conspire to make the trains
impossible."
"How soon do you wish to start?" asked Babbacombe.
"Right away!" laughed Cynthia. "And if we don't get run in for exceeding
the speed limit, we ought to be there by seven."
It was as a matter of fact barely half-past six when Babbacombe turned
the motor in at the great gates of Farringdean Park. A sound of
church-bells came through the evening twilight. The trees of the avenue
were still bare, but there was a misty suggestion of swelling buds in
the saplings. The wind that softly rustled through them seemed to
whisper a special secret to each.
"I like those bells," murmured Cynthia. "They make one feel almost holy.
Jack, you're not fretting over me?"
"No, dear," said Babbacombe steadily.
She squeezed his arm.
"I'm so glad, for--honest Injun--I'm not worth it. Good-bye, then, dear
Jack! Just drive straight away directly you've put me down. I shall find
my own way in."
He took her at her word as he always did, and, having deposited her at
the gate under the trees that led to his bailiff's abode, he shot
swiftly away into the gathering dusk without a single glance behind.
West, entering his home a full hour later, heavy-footed, the inevitable
cigarette between his lips, was surprised to discover, on hanging up his
cap, a morsel of white pasteboard stuck jauntily into the glass of the
hatstand. It seemed to fling him an airy challenge. He stooped to look.
A lady's visiting-card! Mrs. Nat V. West!
A deep flush rose suddenly in his weather-beaten face. He seized the
card, and crushed it against his lips.
But a few moments later, when he opened his dining-room door, there was
no hint of emotion in his bearing. He bore himself with the rigidity of
a man who knows he has a battle before him.
The room was aglow with flickering firelight, and out of the glow a high
voice came--a cheery, inconsequent voice.
"Oh, here you are at last! Come right in and light the lamp. Did you see
my card? Ah, I knew you would be sure to look at yourself directly you
came in. There's nobody at home but me. I suppose your old woman's gone
to church. I've been waiting for you such a while--twelve years and a
bit. Just think of it."
She was standing on the hearth waiting for him, but since he moved but
slowly she stepped forward to meet him, her hand impetuously
outstretched.
He took it, held it closely, let it go.
"We must talk things over," he said.
"Splendid!" said Cynthia. "Where shall we begin? Never mind the lamp.
Let's sit by the fire and be cosy."
He moved forward with her--it was impossible to do otherwise--but there
was no yielding in his action. He held himself as straight and stiff as
a soldier on parade. He had bitten through his cigarette, and he tossed
it into the fire.
"Now sit down!" said Cynthia hospitably. "That chair is for you, and I
am going to curl up on the floor at your feet as becomes a dutiful
wife."
"Don't, Cynthia!" he said under his breath. But she had her way,
nevertheless. There were times when she seemed able to attain this with
scarcely an effort.
She seated herself on the hearthrug with her face to the fire.
"Go on," she said, in a tone of gentle encouragement; "I'm listening."
West's eyes stared beyond her into the flames.
"I haven't much to say," he said quietly at length. "Only this. You are
acting without counting the cost. There is a price to pay for
everything, but the price you will have to pay for this is heavier than
you realise. There should be--there can be--no such thing as equality
between a woman in your position--a good woman--and a blackguard in
mine."
Cynthia made a little gesture of impatience without turning her head.
"Oh, you needn't treat me as if I were on a different plane," she said.
"I'm a sinner, too, in my own humble way. It's unreasonable of you to go
on like that, unkind as well. I may be only a sprat in your estimation,
but even a sprat has its little feelings, its little heartaches, too, I
daresay." She broke off with a sigh and a laugh; then, drawing
impulsively nearer to him, but still without turning: "Do you remember
once, ages and ages ago, you were on the verge of saying something to
me, of--telling me something? And we were interrupted. Mr. West, I've
been waiting all these years to hear what that something was."
West did not stir an eyelid. His face was stern and hard.
"I forget," he said.
She turned upon him then, raising a finger and pointing straight at him.
"That," she said, with conviction, "is just one of your lies!"
West became silent, still staring fixedly into the fire.
Cynthia drew nearer still. She touched his breast with her outstretched
finger.
"Mr. West," she said gravely, "I suppose you'll have to leave off being
a blackguard, and take to being an honest man. That's the only solution
of the difficulty that I can think of now that you have got a crippled
wife to look after."
He gripped her wrist, but still he would not look at her.
"This is madness," he said, grinding out the words through clenched
teeth. "You are making a fatal mistake. I am not fit to be your husband.
It is not in my power to give you happiness."
She did not shrink from his hold, though it was almost violent. Her eyes
were shining like stars.
"That," she said, with quaint assurance, "is just another of your lies."
His hand relaxed slowly till her wrist was free.
"Do you know," he said, still with that iron self-suppression, "that
only a few weeks ago I committed forgery?"
"Yes," said Cynthia. "And I know why you did it, too. It wasn't exactly
clever, but it was just dear of you all the same."
The swindler's face quivered suddenly, uncontrollably. He tried to
laugh--the old harsh laugh--but the sound he uttered was akin to
something very different. He leaned forward sharply, and covered his
face with his hands.
And in that moment Cynthia knew that the walls of the citadel had fallen
at last, so that it lay open for her to enter in.
She knelt up quickly. Her arm slipped round his neck. She drew his head
with soft insistence to her breast.
"My own boy, it's over; forget it all. It wasn't meant to handicap you
always. We'll have another deal now, please God, and start afresh as
partners."
There followed a pause--a silence that had in it something sacred. Then
West raised himself, and took her face between his hands. For a moment
he looked deep into her eyes, his own alight with a vital fire.
Then, "As lovers, Cynthia," he said, and kissed her on the lips.
* * * * *