The hills were uninteresting enough in themselves; they had nograndeur of outline, no picturesqueness even, though at morning andevening the sun, like a great magician, clothed them with beauty at atouch.
They had begun to change, to soften, to blush rose red in the eveninglight, when a woman came to the entrance of the largest of the tentsand looked toward them. She leaned against the support on one side ofthe canvas flap, and, putting back her head, rested that, too, againstit, while her eyes wandered over the plain and over the distant hills.
She was bareheaded, for the covering of the tent projected a few feetto form an awning overhead. The gentle breeze which had risen withsundown stirred the soft brown tendrils of hair on her temples, andfluttered her pink cotton gown a little. She stood very still, withher arms hanging and her hands clasped loosely in front of her. Therewas about her whole attitude an air of studied quiet which in somevague fashion the slight clasp of her hands accentuated. Her face,with its tightly, almost rigidly closed lips, would have been quite inkeeping with the impression of conscious calm which her entirepresence suggested, had it not been that when she raised her eyes astrange contradiction to this idea was afforded. They were large grayeyes, unusually bright and rather startling in effect, for they seemedthe only live thing about her. Gleaming from her still, set face,there was something almost alarming in their brilliancy. They softenedwith a sudden glow of pleasure as they rested on the translucent greenof the wheat-fields under the broad generous sunlight, and thenwandered to where the pure vivid yellow of the mustard-flower spreadin waves to the base of the hills, now mystically veiled in radiance.She stood motionless, watching their melting, elusive changes frompalpitating rose to the transparent purple of amethyst. The stillnessof evening was broken by the monotonous, not unmusical creaking of aPersian wheel at some little distance to the left of the tent. Thewell stood in a little grove of trees; between their branches shecould see, when she turned her head, the coloured saris of the villagewomen, where they stood in groups chattering as they drew the water,and the little naked brown babies that toddled beside them or sprawledon the hard ground beneath the trees. From the village of flat-roofedmud houses under the low hill at the back of the tents, other womenwere crossing the plain toward the well, their terra-cotta water-jarspoised easily on their heads, casting long shadows on the sun-bakedground as they came.
Presently, in the distance, from the direction of the sunlit hillsopposite a little group of men came into sight. Far off, the mustard-coloured jackets and the red turbans of the orderlies made vividsplashes of colour on the dull plain. As they came nearer, the gunsslung across their shoulders, the cases of mathematical instruments,the hammers, and other heavy baggage they carried for the sahib,became visible. A little in front, at walking pace rode the sahibhimself, making notes as he came in a book he held before him. Thegirl at the tent entrance watched the advance of the little companyindifferently, it seemed; except for a slight tightening of themuscles about her mouth, her face remained unchanged. While he wasstill some little distance away, the man with the notebook raised hishead and smiled awkwardly as he saw her standing there. Awkwardness,perhaps, best describes the whole man. He was badly put together,loose-jointed, ungainly. The fact that he was tall profited himnothing, for it merely emphasised the extreme ungracefulness of hisfigure. His long pale face was made paler by the shock of coarse, tow-coloured hair; his eyes, even, looked colourless, though they werecertainly the least uninteresting feature of his face, for they werenot devoid of expression. He had a way of slouching when he moved thatsingularly intensified the general uncouthness of his appearance. "Areyou very tired?" asked his wife, gently, when he had dismounted closeto the tent. The question would have been an unnecessary one had itbeen put to her instead of to her husband, for her voice had thatpeculiar flat toneless sound for which extreme weariness isanswerable.
"Well, no, my dear, not very," he replied, drawling out the words withan exasperating air of delivering a final verdict, after deepreflection on the subject.
The girl glanced once more at the fading colours on the hills. "Comein and rest," she said, moving aside a little to let him pass.
She stood lingering a moment after he had entered the tent, as thoughunwilling to leave the outer air; and before she turned to follow himshe drew a deep breath, and her hand went for one swift second to herthroat as though she felt stifled.
Later on that evening she sat in her tent, sewing by the light of thelamp that stood on her little table.
Opposite to her, her husband stretched his ungainly length in a deck-chair, and turned over a pile of official notes. Every now and thenher eyes wandered from the gay silks of the table-cover she wasembroidering to the canvas walls which bounded the narrow space intowhich their few household goods were crowded. Outside there was a deephush. The silence of the vast empty plain seemed to work its wayslowly, steadily in toward the little patch of light set in its midst.The girl felt it in every nerve; it was as though some soft-footed,noiseless, shapeless creature, whose presence she only dimly divined,was approaching nearer--nearer. The heavy outer stillness was insome way made more terrifying by the rustle of the papers her husbandwas reading, by the creaking of his chair as he moved, and by thelittle fidgeting grunts and half-exclamations which from time to timebroke from him. His wife's hand shook at every unintelligible mutterfrom him, and the slight habitual contraction between her eyesdeepened.
All at once she threw her work down on to the table. "For heaven'ssake--please, John, talk!" she cried. Her eyes, for the moment'sspace in which they met the startled ones of her husband, had a wild,hunted look, but it was gone almost before his slow brain had time tonote that it had been there--and was vaguely disturbing. She laughed alittle unsteadily.
"Did I startle you? I'm sorry. I"--she laughed again--"I believe I'm alittle nervous. When one is all day alone--" She paused withoutfinishing the sentence. The man's face changed suddenly. A wave oftenderness swept over it, and at the same time an expression of half-incredulous delight shone in his pale eyes.
"Poor little girl, are you really lonely?" he said. Even the realfeeling in his tone failed to rob his voice of its peculiarlyirritating grating quality. He rose awkwardly, and moved to his wife'sside.
Involuntarily she shrank a little, and the hand which he had stretchedout to touch her hair sank to his side. She recovered herselfimmediately, and turned her face up to his, though she did not raiseher eyes; but he did not kiss her. Instead, he stood in an embarrassedfashion a moment by her side, and then went back to his seat.
There was silence again for some time. The man lay back in his chair,gazing at his big, clumsy shoes as though he hoped for someinspiration from that quarter, while his wife worked with nervoushaste.
"Don't let me keep you from reading, John," she said, and her voicehad regained its usual gentle tone.
"No, my dear; I'm just thinking of something to say to you, but Idon't seem--"
She smiled a little. In spite of herself, her lip curled faintly."Don't worry about it; it was stupid of me to expect it. I mean--" sheadded, hastily, immediately repenting the sarcasm. She glancedfurtively at him, but his face was quite unmoved; evidently he had notnoticed it, and she smiled faintly again.
"O Kathie, I knew there was something I'd forgotten to tell you, mydear; there's a man coming down here. I don't know whether--"
She looked up sharply. "A man coming here? What for?" sheinterrupted, breathlessly.
"Sent to help me about this oil-boring business, my dear."
He had lighted his pipe, and was smoking placidly, taking long whiffsbetween his words.
"Well?" impatiently questioned his wife, fixing her bright eyes on hisface.
"Well--that's all, my dear."
She checked an exclamation. "But don't you know anything about him--his name? where he comes from? what he is like?" She was leaningforward against the table, her needle, with a long end of yellow silkdrawn half-way through her work, held in her upraised hand, her wholeattitude one of quivering excitement and expectancy.
The man took his pipe from his mouth deliberately, with a look of slowwonder.
"Why, Kathie, you seem quite anxious. I didn't know you'd be sointerested, my dear. Well,"--another long pull at his pipe,--"hisname's Brook--Brookfield, I think." He paused again. "This pipedoesn't draw well a bit; there's something wrong with it, I shouldn'twonder," he added, taking it out and examining the bowl as thoughstruck with the brilliance of the idea.
The woman opposite put down her work and clinched her hands under thetable.
"Go on, John," she said, presently, in a tense, vibrating voice; "hisname is Brookfield. Well, where does he come from?"
"Straight from home, my dear, I believe." He fumbled in his pocket,and after some time extricated a pencil, with which he began to pokethe tobacco in the bowl in an ineffectual aimless fashion, becomingcompletely engrossed in the occupation apparently. There was anotherlong pause. The woman went on working, or feigning to work, for herhands were trembling a good deal.
After some moments she raised her head again. "John, will you mindattending to me one moment, and answering these questions as quicklyas you can?" The emphasis on the last word was so faint as to bealmost as imperceptible as the touch of exasperated contempt which shecould not absolutely banish from her tone.
Her husband, looking up, met her clear bright gaze, and reddened likea school-boy.
"Whereabouts 'from home' does he come?" she asked, in a studiedlygentle fashion.
"Well, from London, I think," he replied, almost briskly for him,though he stammered and tripped over the words. "He's a universitychap; I used to hear he was clever; I don't know about that, I'm sure;he used to chaff me, I remember, but--"
"Chaff you? You have met him then?"
"Yes, my dear,"--he was fast relapsing into his slow drawl again,--"that is, I went to school with him; but it's a long time ago.Brookfield--yes, that must be his name."
She waited a moment; then, "When is he coming?" she inquired,abruptly.
"Let me see--to-day's--"
"Monday;" the word came swiftly between her set teeth.
"Ah, yes--Monday; well," reflectively, "next Monday, my dear."
Mrs. Drayton rose, and began to pace softly the narrow passage betweenthe table and the tent wall, her hands clasped loosely behind her.
"How long have you known this?" she said, stopping abruptly. "O John,you needn't consider; it's quite a simple question. To-day?Yesterday?
Her foot moved restlessly on the ground as she waited.
"I think it was the day before yesterday," he replied.
"Then why, in heaven's name, didn't you tell me before?" she brokeout, fiercely.
"My dear, it slipped my memory. If I'd thought you would beinterested--"
"Interested!" She laughed shortly. "It is rather interesting to hearthat after six months of this"--she made a quick comprehensive gesturewith her hand--"one will have some one to speak to--some one. It isthe hand of Providence; it comes just in time to save me from--" Shechecked herself abruptly.
He sat staring up at her stupidly, without a word.
"It's all right, John," she said, with a quick change of tone,gathering up her work quietly as she spoke. "I'm not mad--yet. You--you must get used to these little outbreaks," she added, after amoment, smiling faintly; "and, to do me justice, I don't oftentrouble you with them, do I? I'm just a little tired, or it's the heator--something. No--don't touch me!" she cried, shrinking back; for hehad risen slowly and was coming toward her.
She had lost command over her voice, and the shrill note of horror init was unmistakable. The man heard it, and shrank in his turn.
"I'm so sorry, John," she murmured, raising her great bright eyes tohis face. They had not lost their goaded expression, though they werefull of tears. "I'm awfully sorry; but I'm just nervous and stupid,and I can't bear any one to touch me when I'm nervous."
"Here's Broomhurst, my dear! I made a mistake in his name after all, Ifind. I told you Brookfield, I believe, didn't I? Well, it isn'tBrookfield, he says; it's Broomhurst."
Mrs. Drayton had walked some little distance across the plain to meetand welcome the expected guest. She stood quietly waiting while herhusband stammered over his incoherent sentences, and then put out herhand.
"We are very glad to see you," she said, with a quick glance at thenew-comer's face as she spoke.
As they walked together toward the tent, after the first greetings,she felt his keen eyes upon her before he turned to her husband.
"I'm afraid Mrs. Drayton finds the climate trying?" he asked. "Perhapsshe ought not to have come so far in this heat?"
"Kathie is often pale. You do look white to-day, my dear," heobserved, turning anxiously toward his wife.
"Do I?" she replied. The unsteadiness of her tone was hardlyappreciable, but it was not lost on Broomhurst's quick ears. "Oh, Idon't think so. I feel very well."
"I'll come and see if they've fixed you up all right," said Drayton,following his companion toward the new tent that had been pitched atsome little distance from the large one.
"We shall see you at dinner then?" Mrs. Drayton observed in reply toBroomhurst's smile as they parted.
She entered the tent slowly, and, moving up to the table already laidfor dinner, began to rearrange the things upon it in a purposeless,mechanical fashion.
After a moment she sank down upon a seat opposite the open entrance,and put her hand to her head.
"What is the matter with me?" she thought, wearily. "All the week I'vebeen looking forward to seeing this man--any man, any one to takeoff the edge of this." She shuddered. Even in thought she hesitated toanalyse the feeling that possessed her. "Well, he's here, and I thinkI feel worse." Her eyes travelled toward the hills she had been usedto watch at this hour, and rested on them with a vague, unseeing gaze.
"Tired Kathie? A penny for your thoughts, my dear," said her husband,coming in presently to find her still sitting there.
"I'm thinking what a curious world this is, and what an ironical veinof humour the gods who look after it must possess," she replied, witha mirthless laugh, rising as she spoke.
John looked puzzled.
"Funny my having known Broomhurst before, you mean?" he saiddoubtfully.
"I was fishing down at Lynmouth this time last year," Broomhurst saidat dinner. "You know Lynmouth, Mrs. Drayton? Do you never imagine youhear the gurgling of the stream? I am tantalised already by the soundof it rushing through the beautiful green gloom of those woods--aren't they lovely? And I haven't been in this burnt-up spot asmany hours as you've had months of it."
She smiled a little.
"You must learn to possess your soul in patience," she said, andglanced inconsequently from Broomhurst to her husband, and thendropped her eyes and was silent a moment.
John was obviously, and a little audibly, enjoying his dinner. He satwith his chair pushed close to the table, and his elbows awkwardlyraised, swallowing his soup in gulps. He grasped his spoon tightly inhis bony hand, so that its swollen joints stood out larger and uglierthan ever, his wife thought.
Her eyes wandered to Broomhurst's hands. They were well shaped, and,though not small, there was a look of refinement about them; he had away of touching things delicately, a little lingeringly, she noticed.There was an air of distinction about his clear-cut, clean-shavenface, possibly intensified by contrast with Drayton's blurredfeatures; and it was, perhaps, also by contrast with the gray cuffsthat showed beneath John's ill-cut drab suit that the linen Broomhurstwore seemed to her particularly spotless.
Broomhurst's thoughts, for his part, were a good deal occupied withhis hostess.
She was pretty, he thought, or perhaps it was that, with the wide, drylonely plain as a setting, her fragile delicacy of appearance wasinvested with a certain flower-like charm.
"The silence here seems rather strange, rather appalling at first,when one is fresh from a town," he pursued, after a moment's pause;"but I suppose you're used to it, eh, Drayton? How do you find lifehere, Mrs. Drayton?" he asked, a little curiously, turning to her ashe spoke.
She hesitated a second. "Oh, much the same as I should find itanywhere else, I expect," she replied; "after all, one carries thepossibilities of a happy life about with one; don't you think so? TheGarden of Eden wouldn't necessarily make my life any happier, or lesshappy, than a howling wilderness like this. It depends on one's selfentirely."
"Given the right Adam and Eve, the desert blossoms like the rose, infact," Broomhurst answered, lightly, with a smiling glance inclusiveof husband and wife; "you two don't feel as though you'd been drivenout of Paradise, evidently."
Drayton raised his eyes from his plate with a smile of totalincomprehension.
"Great heavens! what an Adam to select!" thought Broomhurst,involuntarily, as Mrs. Drayton rose rather suddenly from the table.
"I'll come and help with that packing-case," John said, rising, in histurn, lumberingly from his place; "then we can have a smoke--eh!Kathie don't mind, if we sit near the entrance.
The two men went out together, Broomhurst holding the lantern, for themoon had not yet risen. Mrs. Drayton followed them to the doorway,and, pushing the looped-up hanging farther aside, stepped out into thecool darkness.
Her heart was beating quickly, and there was a great lump in herthroat that frightened her as though she were choking.
"And I am his wife--I belong to him!" she cried, almost aloud.
She pressed both her hands tightly against her breast, and set herteeth, fighting to keep down the rising flood that threatened to sweepaway her composure. "Oh, what a fool I am! What an hysterical fool ofa woman I am!" she whispered below her breath. She began to walkslowly up and down outside the tent, in the space illumined by thelamplight, as though striving to make her outwardly quiet movementsreact upon the inward tumult. In a little while she had conquered; shequietly entered the tent, drew a low chair to the entrance, and tookup a book, just as footsteps became audible. A moment afterwardBroomhurst emerged from the darkness into the circle of light outside,and Mrs. Drayton raised her eyes from the pages she was turning togreet him with a smile.
"Are your things all right?"
"Oh, yes, more or less, thank you. I was a little concerned about acase of books, but it isn't much damaged fortunately. Perhaps I'vesome you would care to look at?"
"The books will be a godsend," she returned, with a sudden brighteningof the eyes; "I was getting desperate--for books."
"What are you reading now?" he asked, glancing at the volume that layin her lap.
"It's a Browning. I carry it about a good deal. I think I like to haveit with me, but I don't seem to read it much."
"Are you waiting for a suitable optimistic moment?" Broomhurstinquired, smiling.
"Yes, now that you mention it, I think that must be why I am waiting,"she replied, slowly.
"And it doesn't come--even in the Garden of Eden? Surely the serpent,pessimism, hasn't been insolent enough to draw you into conversationwith him?" he said, lightly.
"There has been no one to converse with at all--when John is away, Imean. I think I should have liked a little chat with the serpentimmensely by way of a change," she replied, in the same tone.
"Ah, yes," Broomhurst said, with sudden seriousness; "it must beunbearably dull for you alone here, with Drayton away all day."
Mrs. Drayton's hand shook a little as she fluttered a page of her openbook.
"I should think it quite natural you would be irritated beyondendurance to hear that all's right with the world, for instance, whenyou were sighing for the long day to pass," he continued.
"I don't mind the day so much; it's the evenings." She abruptlychecked the swift words, and flushed painfully. "I mean--I've grownstupidly nervous, I think--even when John is here. Oh, you have noidea of the awful silence of this place at night," she added, risinghurriedly from her low seat, and moving closer to the doorway. "It isso close, isn't it?" she said, almost apologetically. There wassilence for quite a minute.
Broomhurst's quick eyes noted the silent momentary clinching of thehands that hung at her side, as she stood leaning against the supportat the entrance.
"But how stupid of me to give you such a bad impression of the camp--the first evening, too!" Mrs. Drayton exclaimed, presently; and hercompanion mentally commended the admirable composure of her voice.
"Probably you will never notice that it is lonely at all," shecontinued; "John likes it here. He is immensely interested in hiswork, you know. I hope you are too. If you are interested it is allquite right. I think the climate tries me a little. I never used to bestupid--and nervous. Ah, here's John; he's been round to the kitchentent, I suppose."
"Been looking after that fellow cleanin' my gun, my dear," Johnexplained, shambling toward the deck-chair.
Later Broomhurst stood at his own tent door. He looked up at the star-sown sky, and the heavy silence seemed to press upon him like anactual, physical burden.
He took his cigar from between his lips presently, and looked at theglowing end reflectively before throwing it away.
"Considering that she has been alone with him here for six months, shehas herself very well in hand--very well in hand," he repeated.
It was Sunday morning. John Drayton sat just inside the tent,presumably enjoying his pipe before the heat of the day. His eyesfurtively followed his wife as she moved about near him, sometimespassing close to his chair in search of something she had mislaid.There was colour in her cheeks; her eyes, though preoccupied, werebright; there was a lightness and buoyancy in her step which she setto a little dancing air she was humming under her breath.
After a moment or two the song ceased; she began to move slowly,sedately; and, as if chilled by a raw breath of air, the light fadedfrom her eyes, which she presently turned toward her husband.
"Why do you look at me?" she asked, suddenly.
"I don't know, my dear," he began slowly and laboriously, as was hiswont. "I was thinkin' how nice you looked--jest now--much better, youknow; but somehow,"--he was taking long whiffs at his pipe, as usual,between each word, while she stood patiently waiting for him tofinish,--"somehow, you alter so, my dear--you're quite pale again, allof a minute."
She stood listening to him, noticing against her will the more thansuspicion of cockney accent and the thick drawl with which the wordswere uttered.
His eyes sought her face piteously. She noticed that too, and stoodbefore him torn by conflicting emotions, pity and disgust strugglingin a hand-to-hand fight within her.
"Mr. Broomhurst and I are going down by the well to sit; it's coolerthere. Won't you come?" she said at last, gently.
He did not reply for a moment; then he turned his head aside, sharplyfor him.
"No, my dear, thank you; I'm comfortable enough here," he returned,huskily.
She stood over him, hesitating a second; then moved abruptly to thetable, from which she took a book.
He had risen from his seat by the time she turned to go out, and heintercepted her timorously.
"Kathie, give me a kiss before you go," he whispered, hoarsely. "I--Idon't often bother you."
She drew her breath in deeply as he put his arms clumsily about her;but she stood still, and he kissed her on the forehead, and touchedthe little wavy curls that strayed across it gently with his big,trembling fingers.
When he released her, she moved at once impetuously to the opendoorway. On the threshold she hesitated, paused a moment irresolutely,and then turned back.
"Shall I--does your pipe want filling, John?" she asked, softly.
"No, thank you, my dear."
"Would you like me to stay, read to you, or anything?"
He looked up at her wistfully. "N-no, thank you; I'm not much of areader, you know, my dear--somehow."
She hated herself for knowing that there would be a "my dear,"probably a "somehow," in his reply, and despised herself for the senseof irritated impatience she felt by anticipation, even before thewords were uttered.
There was a moment's hesitating silence, broken by the sound of quick,firm footsteps without. Broomhurst paused at the entrance, and lookedinto the tent.
"Aren't you coming, Drayton?" he asked, looking first at Drayton'swife and then swiftly putting in his name with a scarcely perceptiblepause. "Too lazy? But you, Mrs. Drayton?"
"Yes, I'm coming," she said.
They left the tent together, and walked some few steps in silence.
Broomhurst shot a quick glance at his companion's face.
"Anything wrong?" he asked, presently.
Though the words were ordinary enough, the voice in which they werespoken was in some subtle fashion a different voice from that in whichhe had talked to her nearly two months ago, though it would haverequired a keen sense of nice shades in sound to have detected thechange.
Mrs. Drayton's sense of niceties in sound was particularly keen, butshe answered quietly, "Nothing, thank you."
They did not speak again till the trees round the stone well werereached.
Broomhurst arranged their seats comfortably beside it.
"Are we going to read or talk?" he asked, looking up at her from hislower place.
"Well, we generally talk most when we arrange to read; so shall weagree to talk to-day for a change, by way of getting some readingdone?" she rejoined, smiling. "You begin."
Broomhurst seemed in no hurry to avail himself of the permission; hewas apparently engrossed in watching the flecks of sunshine on Mrs.Drayton's white dress. The whirring of insects, and the creaking of aPersian wheel somewhere in the neighbourhood, filtered through the hotsilence.
Mrs. Drayton laughed after a few minutes; there was a touch ofembarrassment in the sound.
"The new plan doesn't answer. Suppose you read, as usual, and let meinterrupt, also as usual, after the first two lines."
He opened the book obediently, but turned the pages at random.
She watched him for a moment, and then bent a little forward towardhim.
"It is my turn now," she said, suddenly; "is anything wrong?"
He raised his head, and their eyes met. There was a pause. "I will bemore honest than you," he returned; "yes, there is."
"What?"
"I've had orders to move on."
She drew back, and her lips whitened, though she kept them steady.
"When do you go?"
"On Wednesday."
There was silence again; the man still kept his eyes on her face.
The whirring of the insects and the creaking of the wheel had suddenlygrown so strangely loud and insistent that it was in a half-dazedfashion she at length heard her name--"Kathleen!"
"Kathleen!" he whispered again, hoarsely.
She looked him full in the face, and once more their eyes met in along, grave gaze.
The man's face flushed, and he half rose from his seat with animpetuous movement; but Kathleen stopped him with a glance.
"Will you go and fetch my work? I left it in the tent," she said,speaking very clearly and distinctly; "and then will you go onreading? I will find the place while you are gone."
She took the book from his hand, and he rose and stood before her.
There was a mute appeal in his silence, and she raised her headslowly.
Her face was white to the lips, but she looked at him unflinchingly;and without a word he turned and left her.
Mrs. Drayton was resting in the tent on Tuesday afternoon. With thehelp of cushions and some low chairs, she had improvised a couch, onwhich she lay quietly with her eyes closed. There was a tenseness,however, in her attitude which indicated that sleep was far from her.
Her features seemed to have sharpened during the last few days, andthere were hollows in her cheeks. She had been very ill for a longtime, but all at once, with a sudden movement, she turned her head andburied her face in the cushions with a groan. Slipping from her place,she fell on her knees beside the couch, and put both hands before hermouth to force back the cry that she felt struggling to her lips.
For some moments the wild effort she was making for outward calm,which even when she was alone was her first instinct, strained everynerve and blotted out sight and hearing, and it was not till the soundwas very near that she was conscious of the ring of horse's hoofs onthe plain.
She raised her head sharply, with a thrill of fear, still kneeling,and listened.
There was no mistake. The horseman was riding in hot haste, for thethud of the hoofs followed one another swiftly.
As Mrs. Drayton listened her white face grew whiter, and she began totremble. Putting out shaking hands, she raised herself by the arms ofthe folding-chair and stood upright.
Nearer and nearer came the thunder of the approaching sound, mingledwith startled exclamations and the noise of trampling feet from thedirection of the kitchen tent.
Slowly, mechanically almost, she dragged herself to the entrance, andstood clinging to the canvas there. By the time she had reached itBroomhurst had flung himself from the saddle, and had thrown the reinsto one of the men.
Mrs. Drayton stared at him with wide, bright eyes as he hastenedtoward her.
"I thought you--you are not--" she began, and then her teeth began tochatter. "I am so cold!" she said, in a little, weak voice.
Broomhurst took her hand and led her over the threshold back into thetent.
"Don't be so frightened," he implored; "I came to tell you first. Ithought it wouldn't frighten you so much as--Your--Drayton is--veryill. They are bringing him. I--"
He paused. She gazed at him a moment with parted lips; then she brokeinto a horrible, discordant laugh, and stood clinging to the back of achair.
Broomhurst started back.
"Do you understand what I mean?" he whispered. "Kathleen, for God'ssake--don't--he is dead."
He looked over his shoulder as he spoke, her shrill laughter ringingin his ears. The white glare and dazzle of the plain stretched beforehim, framed by the entrance to the tent; far off, against the horizon,there were moving black specks, which he knew to be the returningservants with their still burden.
They were bringing John Drayton home.
One afternoon, some months later, Broomhurst climbed the steep laneleading to the cliffs of a little English village by the sea. He hadalready been to the inn, and had been shown by the proprietress thehouse where Mrs. Drayton lodged.
"The lady was out, but the gentleman would likely find her if he wentto the cliffs--down by the bay, or thereabouts," her landladyexplained; and, obeying her directions, Broomhurst presently emergedfrom the shady woodland path on to the hillside overhanging the sea.
He glanced eagerly round him, and then, with a sudden quickening ofthe heart, walked on over the springy heather to where she sat. Sheturned when the rustling his footsteps made through the bracken wasnear enough to arrest her attention, and looked up at him as he came.Then she rose slowly and stood waiting for him. He came up to herwithout a word, and seized both her hands, devouring her face with hiseyes. Something he saw there repelled him. Slowly he let her handsfall, still looking at her silently. "You are not glad to see me, andI have counted the hours," he said, at last, in a dull, tonelessvoice.
Her lips quivered. "Don't be angry with me--I can't help it--I'm notglad or sorry for anything now," she answered; and her voice matchedhis for grayness.
They sat down together on a long flat stone half embedded in a wiryclump of whortleberries. Behind them the lonely hillsides rose,brilliant with yellow bracken and the purple of heather. Before themstretched the wide sea. It was a soft, gray day. Streaks of palesunlight trembled at moments far out on the water. The tide was risingin the little bay above which they sat, and Broomhurst watched thelazy foam-edged waves slipping over the uncovered rocks toward theshore, then sliding back as though for very weariness they despairedof reaching it. The muffled, pulsing sound of the sea filled thesilence. Broomhurst thought suddenly of hot Eastern sunshine, of thewhir of insect wings on the still air, and the creaking of a wheel inthe distance. He turned and looked at his companion.
"I have come thousands of miles to see you," he said; "aren't yougoing to speak to me now I am here?"
"Why did you come? I told you not to come," she answered, falteringly."I--" she paused.
"And I replied that I should follow you--if you remember," heanswered, still quietly. "I came because I would not listen to whatyou said then, at that awful time. You didn't know yourself what yousaid. No wonder! I have given you some months, and now I have come."
There was silence between them. Broomhurst saw that she was crying;her tears fell fast on to her hands, that were clasped in her lap. Herface, he noticed, was thin and drawn.
Very gently he put his arm round her shoulder and drew her nearer tohim. She made no resistance; it seemed that she did not notice themovement; and his arm dropped at his side.
"You asked me why I had come. You think it possible that three monthscan change one very thoroughly, then?" he said, in a cold voice.
"I not only think it possible; I have proved it," she replied,wearily.
He turned round and faced her.
"You did love me, Kathleen!" he asserted. "You never said so inwords, but I know it," he added, fiercely.
"Yes, I did."
"And--you mean that you don't now?"
Her voice was very tired. "Yes; I can't help it," she answered; "ithas gone--utterly."
The gray sea slowly lapped the rocks. Overhead the sharp scream of agull cut through the stillness. It was broken again, a momentafterward, by a short hard laugh from the man.
"Don't!" she whispered, and laid a hand swiftly on his arm. "Do youthink it isn't worse for me? I wish to God I did love you!" shecried, passionately. "Perhaps it would make me forget that, to allintents and purposes, I am a murderess.
Broomhurst met her wide, despairing eyes with an amazement whichyielded to sudden pitying comprehension.
"So that is it, my darling? You are worrying about that? You whowere as loyal as--"
She stopped him with a frantic gesture.
"Don't! don't!" she wailed. "If you only knew! Let me try to tellyou--will you?" she urged, pitifully. "It may be better if I tell someone--if I don't keep it all to myself, and think, and think."
She clasped her hands tight, with the old gesture he remembered whenshe was struggling for self-control, and waited a moment.
Presently she began to speak in a low, hurried tone: "It began beforeyou came. I know now what the feeling was that I was afraid toacknowledge to myself. I used to try and smother it; I used to repeatthings to myself all day--poems, stupid rhymes--anything to keep mythoughts quite underneath--but I--hated John before you came! We hadbeen married nearly a year then. I never loved him. Of course you aregoing to say, 'Why did you marry him?' " She looked drearily over theplacid sea. "Why did I marry him? I don't know; for the reason thathundreds of ignorant, inexperienced girls marry, I suppose. My homewasn't a happy one. I was miserable, and oh--restless. I wonder ifmen know what it feels like to be restless? Sometimes I think theycan't even guess. John wanted me very badly; nobody wanted me at homeparticularly. There didn't seem to be any point in my life. Do youunderstand? . . . Of course, being alone with him in that little campin that silent plain"--she shuddered--"made things worse. My nerveswent all to pieces. Everything he said, his voice, his accent, hiswalk, the way he ate, irritated me so that I longed to rush outsometimes and shriek--and go mad. Does it sound ridiculous to you tobe driven mad by such trifles? I only know I used to get up from thetable sometimes and walk up and down outside, with both hands over mymouth to keep myself quiet. And all the time I hated myself--how Ihated myself! I never had a word from him that wasn't gentle andtender. I believe he loved the ground I walked on. Oh, it is awfulto be loved like that when you--" She drew in her breath with a sob."I--I--it made me sick for him to come near me--to touch me." Shestopped a moment.
Broomhurst gently laid his hand on her quivering one. "Poor littlegirl!" he murmured.
"Then you came," she said, "and before long I had another feeling tofight against. At first I thought it couldn't be true that I loved you--it would die down. I think I was frightened at the feeling; Ididn't know it hurt so to love any one."
Broomhurst stirred a little. "Go on," he said, tersely.
"But it didn't die," she continued, in a trembling whisper, "and theother awful feeling grew stronger and stronger--hatred; no, that isnot the word--loathing for--for--John. I fought against it. Yes,"she cried, feverishly, clasping and unclasping her hands; "Heavenknows I fought it with all my strength, and reasoned with myself, and--oh, I did everything, but--" Her quick-falling tears made speechdifficult.
"Kathleen!" Broomhurst urged, desperately, "you couldn't help it, youpoor child. You say yourself you struggled against your feelings. Youwere always gentle; perhaps he didn't know."
"But he did--he did," she wailed; "it is just that. I hurt him ahundred times a day; he never said so, but I knew it; and yet Icouldn't be kind to him,--except in words,--and he understood. Andafter you came it was worse in one way, for he knew--I felt he knew--that I loved you. His eyes used to follow me like a dog's, and I wasstabbed with remorse, and I tried to be good to him, but I couldn't."
"But--he didn't suspect--he trusted you," began Broomhurst. "He hadevery reason. No woman was ever so loyal, so--"
"Hush!" she almost screamed. "Loyal! it was the least I could do--tostop you, I mean--when you--After all, I knew it without your tellingme. I had deliberately married him without loving him. It was my ownfault. I felt it. Even if I couldn't prevent his knowing that I hatedhim, I could prevent that. It was my punishment. I deserved it fordaring to marry without love. But I didn't spare John one pang afterall," she added, bitterly. "He knew what I felt toward him; I don'tthink he cared about anything else. You say I mustn't reproach myself?When I went back to the tent that morning--when you--when I stoppedyou from saying you loved me, he was sitting at the table with hishead buried in his hands; he was crying--bitterly. I saw him,--it isterrible to see a man cry,--and I stole away gently, but he saw me. Iwas torn to pieces, but I couldn't go to him. I knew he would kissme, and I shuddered to think of it. It seemed more than ever not to beborne that he should do that--when I knew you loved me."
"Kathleen," cried her lover, again, "don't dwell on it all so terribly--don't--"
"How can I forget?" she answered, despairingly. "And then,"--shelowered her voice,--"oh, I can't tell you--all the time, at the backof my mind somewhere, there was a burning wish that he might die. Iused to lie awake at night, and, do what I would to stifle it, thatthought used to scorch me, I wished it so intensely. Do you believethat by willing one can bring such things to pass?" she asked, lookingat Broomhurst with feverishly bright eyes. "No? Well, I don't know. Itried to smother it,--I really tried,--but it was there, whateverother thoughts I heaped on the top. Then, when I heard the horsegalloping across the plain that morning, I had a sick fear that it wasyou. I knew something had happened, and my first thought when I sawyou alive and well, and knew it was John, was that it was too goodto be true. I believe I laughed like a maniac, didn't I? . . . Not toblame? Why, if it hadn't been for me he wouldn't have died. The mensay they saw him sitting with his head uncovered in the burning sun,his face buried in his hands--just as I had seen him the day before.He didn't trouble to be careful; he was too wretched."
She paused, and Broomhurst rose and began to pace the little hillsidepath at the edge of which they were seated.
Presently he came back to her.
"Kathleen, let me take care of you," he implored, stooping toward her."We have only ourselves to consider in this matter. Will you come tome at once?"
She shook her head sadly.
Broomhurst set his teeth, and the lines round his mouth deepened. Hethrew himself down beside her on the heather.
"Dear," he urged, still gently, though his voice showed he wascontrolling himself with an effort, "you are morbid about this. Youhave been alone too much; you are ill. Let me take care of you; Ican, Kathleen,--and I love you. Nothing but morbid fancy makes youimagine you are in any way responsible for--Drayton's death. You can'tbring him back to life, and--"
"No," she sighed, drearily, "and if I could, nothing would be altered.Though I am mad with self-reproach, I feel that--it was all soinevitable. If he were alive and well before me this instant, myfeeling toward him wouldn't have changed. If he spoke to me he wouldsay 'my dear'--and I should loathe him. Oh, I know! It is thatthat makes it so awful."
"But if you acknowledge it," Broomhurst struck in, eagerly, "will youwreck both of our lives for the sake of vain regrets? Kathleen, younever will."
He waited breathlessly for her answer.
"I won't wreck both our lives by marrying again without love on myside," she replied, firmly.
"I will take the risk," he said. "You have loved me; you will loveme again. You are crushed and dazed now with brooding over this--thistrouble, but--"
"But I will not allow you to take the risk," Kathleen answered. "Whatsort of woman should I be to be willing again to live with a man Idon't love? I have come to know that there are things one owes toone's self. Self-respect is one of them. I don't know how it hascome to be so, but all my old feeling for you has gone. It is asthough it had burned itself out. I will not offer gray ashes to anyman."
Broomhurst, looking up at her pale, set face, knew that her words werefinal, and turned his own aside with a groan.
"Ah," cried Kathleen, with a little break in her voice, "don't! Goaway, and be happy and strong, and all that I loved in you. I am sosorry--so sorry to hurt you. I--" her voice faltered miserably; "I--Ionly bring trouble to people."
There was a long pause.
"Did you never think that there is a terrible vein of irony runningthrough the ordering of this world?" she said, presently. "It is amistake to think our prayers are not answered--they are. In due timewe get our heart's desire--when we have ceased to care for it."
"I haven't yet got mine," Broomhurst answered, doggedly, "and I shallnever cease to care for it."
She smiled a little, with infinite sadness.
"Listen, Kathleen," he said. They had both risen, and he stood beforeher, looking down at her. "I will go now, but in a year's time I shallcome back. I will not give you up. You shall love me yet."
"Perhaps--I don't think so," she answered, wearily.
Broomhurst looked at her trembling lips a moment in silence; then hestooped and kissed both her hands instead.
"I will wait till you tell me you love me," he said.
She stood watching him out of sight. He did not look back, and sheturned with swimming eyes to the gray sea and the transient gleams ofsunlight that swept like tender smiles across its face.
zpostcode
Recruit
weather
mreligion
Yellowpages
sport
constellation
shopping
name
game
directory
literature
Word
tour
furnish
Lottery
tftnews
lyrics
News
digital
car
dir
Edu
Finance
