"By the way, what have I done to you, Kenrick?"
We were walking together, Beryl and I, in the garden, just as we had
walked on the evening of my arrival, only that now the shade had nearly
vanished with the fall of leaves. We had not walked together thus alone
since prior to the tragedy, but to-day it happened that Pentridge was
out with Septimus Matterson, and as I had mentioned an intention of
doing something to the garden, Beryl had joined me. We had walked on
thus together, chatting about the piece of work I had in hand, when she
suddenly faced round on me with the above query.
"Done to me?" I echoed rather blankly. "Done to me? What do you mean,
Beryl?"
"Well, why have you avoided me so of late--rather markedly, too?"
Rather markedly? Great heaven! And here I had been priding myself all
this while upon having played my part so well, above all so
unobtrusively. And this was what it had amounted to--that I had avoided
her "rather markedly." But there was no trace of resentment, of temper,
in her tone. It was merely that of one desiring information, and her
great eyes were bent straight and searchingly upon my face.
What was I to say? I became conscious that I was staring stupidly at
her, but if only she could have read my mind! Yet I could hardly read
it myself. All sorts of whirling confused thoughts were chasing each
other through it, as I looked at her standing there, sweet, and cool,
and graceful, and wholly alluring, but--not for me, ah no! not for me.
How could I tell her of the bitter upheaval of the last couple of weeks?
How could I tell her the truth without telling her the whole truth?
How could I tell her that I, a beggared pauper, had been striving to
stifle and live down the love I had been on the point of declaring? It
was too late for that, and, over and above, would not such a declaration
now be simply a cheapening of myself; now that I had assured myself
that, in any event, whatever love she had to give was not for me? What
was I to say? I could not deny that I had avoided her. Her natural
quick-wittedness and woman's instinct were not to be set aside in any so
light a fashion, yet I shrank from laying my own wounds bare.
"Why, don't you see what a lot I've had to do, Beryl?" I said. "Rather
more than usual of late. And you've had a visitor to entertain, too.
Pentridge is a good chap, isn't he?"
All this I rattled out airily, and in the most natural manner in the
world, as I thought. But she was not taken in.
"You haven't been yourself at all for some time, Kenrick," she went on,
"not since we came back, anyhow. I'm not the only one who has noticed
it."
"So? Who else has?" I asked laughingly.
"Well, Dr Pentridge for one. We were talking about you the other day,
and he said you gave him the idea of a man who had something on his
mind. He's a doctor, you see."
"Ho-ho! Quite so; and now he's trying to capture a fee out of
consulting hours," I laughed. "Never mind, Beryl. We won't call in
Pentridge professionally just yet."
I had a spade in my hand, and with it I set to work to clear away a
slight obstruction in the furrow beneath the quince hedge; and while I
did so I realised that my laugh did not ring true, that it no more
imposed upon Beryl than it did upon myself.
"By the way," I went on, "he's coming to practice in Fort Lamport, he
tells me. That'll be handy if I want to put him in charge of my case."
"Kenrick, will you stop joking and be serious," she said. "First of
all, answer my first question. Have I done or said anything to offend
you?"
"Why, good heavens! of course not. How on earth could you?"
"That's a weight off my mind, at any rate," she answered with a little
smile.