Alec's first visit was to Lucy. No one knew that he had arrived, and
after changing his clothes at the rooms in Pall Mall that he had taken
for the summer, he walked to Charles Street. His heart leaped as he
strolled up the hill of St. James Street, bright by a fortunate chance
with the sunshine of a summer day; and he rejoiced in the gaiety of the
well-dressed youths who sauntered down, bound for one or other of the
clubs, taking off their hats with a rapid smile of recognition to
charming women who sat in victorias or in electric cars. There was an
air of opulence in the broad street, of a civilisation refined without
brutality, which was very grateful to his eyes accustomed for so long to
the wilderness of Africa.
The gods were favourable to his wishes that day, for Lucy was at home;
she sat in the drawing-room, by the window, reading a novel. At her side
were masses of flowers, and his first glimpse of her was against a great
bowl of roses. The servant announced his name, and she sprang up with a
cry. She flushed with excitement, and then the blood fled from her
cheeks, and she became extraordinarily pale. Alec noticed that she was
whiter and thinner than when last he had seen her; but she was more
beautiful.
'I didn't expect you so soon,' she faltered.
And then unaccountably tears came to her eyes. Falling back into her
chair, she hid her face. Her heart began to beat painfully.
'You must forgive me,' she said, trying to smile. 'I can't help being
very silly.'
For days Lucy had lived in an agony of terror, fearing this meeting, and
now it had come upon her unexpectedly. More than four years had passed
since last they had seen one another, and they had been years of anxiety
and distress. She was certain that she had changed, and looking with
pitiful dread in the glass, she told herself that she was pale and dull.
She was nearly thirty. There were lines about her eyes, and her mouth
had a bitter droop. She had no mercy on herself. She would not minimise
the ravages of time, and with a brutal frankness insisted on seeing
herself as she might be in ten years, when an increasing leanness,
emphasising the lines and increasing the prominence of her features,
made her still more haggard. She was seized with utter dismay. He might
have ceased to love her. His life had been so full, occupied with
strenuous adventures, while hers had been used up in waiting, only in
waiting. It was natural enough that the strength of her passion should
only have increased, but it was natural too that his should have
vanished before a more urgent preoccupation. And what had she to offer
him now? She turned away from the glass because her tears blurred the
image it presented; and if she looked forward to the first meeting with
vehement eagerness, it was also with sickening dread.
And now she was so troubled that she could not adopt the attitude of
civil friendliness which she had intended in order to show him that she
made no claim upon him. She wanted to seem quite collected so that her
behaviour should not lead him to think her heart at all affected, but
she could only watch his eyes hungrily. She braced herself to restrain a
wail of sorrow if she saw his disillusionment. He talked in order to
give time for her to master her agitation.
'I was afraid there would be interviewers and boring people generally to
meet me if I came by the boat by which I was expected, so I got into
another, and I've arrived a day before my time.'
She was calmer now, and though she did not speak, she looked at him with
strained attention, hanging on his words.
He was very bronzed, thin after his recent illness, but he looked well
and strong. His manner had the noble self-confidence which had delighted
her of old, and he spoke with the quiet deliberation she loved. Now and
then a faint inflection betrayed his Scottish birth.
'I felt that I owed my first visit to you. Can you ever forgive me that
I have not brought George home to you?'
Lucy gave a sudden gasp. And with bitter self-reproach she realised that
in the cruel joy of seeing Alec once more she had forgotten her brother.
She was ashamed. It was but eighteen months since he had died, but
twelve since the cruel news had reached her, and now, at this moment of
all others, she was so absorbed in her love that no other feeling could
enter her heart.
She looked down at her dress. Its half-mourning still betokened that she
had lost one who was very dear to her, but the black and white was a
mockery. She remembered in a flash the stunning grief which Alec's
letter had brought her. It seemed at first that there must be a mistake
and that her tears were but part of a hateful dream. It was too
monstrously unjust that the fates should have hit upon George. She had
already suffered too much. And George was so young. It was very hard
that a mere boy should be robbed of the precious jewel which is life.
And when she realised that it was really true, her grief knew no bounds.
All that she had hoped was come to nought, and now she could only
despair. She bitterly regretted that she had ever allowed the boy to go
on that fatal expedition, and she blamed herself because it was she who
had arranged it. He must have died accusing her of his death. Her father
was dead, and George was dead, and she was alone. Now she had only Alec;
and then, like some poor stricken beast, her heart went out to him,
crying for love, crying for protection. All her strength, the strength
on which she had prided herself, was gone; and she felt utterly weak and
utterly helpless. And her heart yearned for Alec, and the love which had
hitherto been like a strong enduring light, now was a consuming fire.
But Alec's words brought the recollection of George back to her
reproachful heart, and she saw the boy as she was always pleased to
remember him, in his flannels, the open shirt displaying his fine white
neck, with the Panama hat that suited him so well; and she saw again his
pleasant blue eyes and his engaging smile. He was a picture of honest
English manhood. There was a sob in her throat, and her voice trembled
when she spoke.
'I told you that if he died a brave man's death I could ask no more.'
She spoke in so low a tone that Alec could scarcely hear, but his pulse
throbbed with pride at her courage. She went on, almost in a whisper.
'I suppose it was predestined that our family should come to an end in
this way. I'm thankful that George so died that his ancestors need have
felt no shame for him.'
'You are very brave.'
She shook her head slowly.
'No, it's not courage; it's despair. Sometimes, when I think what his
father was, I'm thankful that George is dead. For at least his end was
heroic. He died in a noble cause, in the performance of his duty. Life
would have been too hard for him to allow me to regret his end.'
Alec watched her. He foresaw the words that she would say, and he waited
for them.
'I want to thank you for all you did for him,' she said, steadying her
voice.
'You need not do that,' he answered, gravely.
She was silent for a moment. Then she raised her eyes and looked at him
steadily. Her voice now had regained its usual calmness.
'I want you to tell me that he did all I could have wished him to do.'
To Alec it seemed that she must notice the delay of his answer. He had
not expected that the question would be put to him so abruptly. He had
no moral scruples about telling a deliberate lie, but it affected him
with a physical distaste. It sickened him like nauseous water.
'Yes, I think he did.'
'It's my only consolation that in the short time there was given to him,
he did nothing that was small or mean, and that in everything he was
honourable, upright, and just dealing.'
'Yes, he was all that.'
'And in his death?'
It seemed to Alec that something caught at his throat. The ordeal was
more terrible than he expected.
'In his death he was without fear.'
Lucy drew a deep breath of relief.
'Oh, thank God! Thank God! You don't know how much it means to me to
hear all that from your own lips. I feel that in a manner his courage,
above all his death, have redeemed my father's fault. It shows that
we're not rotten to the core, and it gives me back my self-respect. I
feel I can look the world in the face once more. I'm infinitely grateful
to George. He's repaid me ten thousand times for all my love, and my
care, and my anxiety.'
'I'm very glad that it is not only grief I have brought you. I was
afraid you would hate me.'
Lucy blushed, and there was a new light in her eyes. It seemed that on a
sudden she had cast away the load of her unhappiness.
'No, I could never do that.'
At that moment they heard the sound of a carriage stopping at the door.
'There's Aunt Alice,' said Lucy. 'She's been lunching out.'
'Then let me go,' said Alec. 'You must forgive me, but I feel that I
want to see no one else to-day.'
He rose, and she gave him her hand. He held it firmly.
'You haven't changed?'
'Don't,' she cried.
She looked away, for once more the tears were coming to her eyes. She
tried to laugh.
'I'm frightfully weak and emotional now. You'll utterly despise me.'
'I want to see you again very soon,' he said.
The words of Ruth came to her mind: _Why have I found grace in thine
eyes, that thou shouldst take knowledge of me_, and her heart was very
full. She smiled in her old charming way.
When he was gone she drew a long breath. It seemed that a new joy was
come into her life, and on a sudden she felt a keen pleasure in all the
beauty of the world. She turned to the great bowl of flowers which stood
on a table by the chair in which she had been sitting, and burying her
face in them, voluptuously inhaled their fragrance. She knew that he
loved her still.