Book Four—Chapter Thirty Five.

Book Four—Chapter Thirty Five.What were they to do?That was the question they asked each other as soon as they were able to collect their ideas and talk calmly.Hallam had put her into Jim Bainbridge’s swivel-chair; and he sat on a corner of the writing-table, facing her, holding one of her hands in his. It was become to him now a matter simply of doing what was best for her happiness. Whatever she decided he resolved to abide by. She was the more injured; the settlement of their future must lie in her hands. His rights, his claim on her, which until now had held a paramount place in his thoughts, assumed an insignificance which rendered them negligible beside her supreme right to the direction of her own life.“I’ll go, Esmé,—I’ll go now, if you wish it,” he said,—“if it would make things easier for you.”He felt her fingers close round his, and said no more about going.They sat hand in hand for a long while without speaking. Presently she moved slightly and lifted her face to his, white and wrung with emotion, with the stain of much weeping disfiguring it; but the sweetness of her look, the pathos in the eyes which met his, made her face seem more beautiful to him than ever before. He leaned over her and pressed his cheek to hers.“Paul,” she whispered, “if it wasn’t for—It breaks my heart when I think of George.”Sharply, as though her words stung him, he drew back.“It’s going to hurt him badly,” she said. “And my baby... My poor little innocent baby!”Hallam had nothing to say to that. The culminating disaster, the biggest and most appalling of the difficulties with which they were faced, was wrought by the existence of the child. He sat, gripping her hand hard, speechless and immeasurably disconcerted. What was there to say in face of her distress?“I can’t think,” she said. “I’m all confused. This changes everything. I don’t know what to do. I don’t feel that I can go home. I haven’t got a home...”She reflected awhile.“George will have to be told. That is the part which is going to hurt. I can’t bear to think of it.”“I’ll tell him,” Hallam said.“No; not you.”She spoke with a sort of repressed vehemence, and drew her hand from his, and sat with it clenched on the desk in front of her, her face working painfully.“Oh! whatever made me do it?” she cried. “Why was I not satisfied to live with my memories? All this distress is of my making. Why did I do it?”“God knows!” he returned with sudden bitterness. “If you had died, your memory would have been sacred to me.”He regretted having said that as soon as the words were spoken. What right had he to reproach her for inconstancy? It was easy for him to remain faithful in thought to the wife who had never given him a moment’s pain. She had suffered—he knew that she must have suffered a great deal—on his account; but her love had remained unchanged through all the disappointment and the weary years of waiting. He held the foremost place in her heart. He was still her husband, to whom she had given the best of her love. She did not withdraw her heart from him. She wanted him, even as he wanted her: that assurance removed all doubt from his mind as to what they ought to do. He meant to have her.He fell to talking quietly and reasonably about the situation. It was useless to indulge in recrimination and self-reproach: they must take a common-sense view of their case and make the best of the difficulties. These were not insoluble after all.He was still talking, while Esmé listened to him with an air of anxious attention, when Jim Bainbridge walked in. From the clerk he had learned of the presence of his sister-in-law and of the stranger who had visited him on the previous day. The cat was out of the bag now for good or ill: the business of keeping Paul Hallam’s return secret had ceased to be any affair of his. He had wanted to biff the fellow out of it; had trusted that Hallam would see the inexpediency of his resuscitation stunt and clear off before the news of his return got about. And here they were, together—in his office! He was jolly well in the soup this time.He came in looking harassed and startled, and stood inside the door, surveying them in a sort of worried amazement. The appearance of his sister-in-law shocked him. She looked as if she had been mixed up in the brawling in the streets; as if she had been rolled in the dust and badly hurt. His eyes met hers, and read reproach in them as she got up from his chair and came towards him.“Jim, why didn’t you tell me this last night?” she said.“I wouldn’t have told you, ever, if I’d had my way,” he answered, with the sulky manner of a man receiving an unmerited rebuke. “How did you come to find one another? If those blasted niggers hadn’t started raising Cain over the arrest of their blackguardly leader, I’d have been in my place here. Something always happens when I’m not on the spot. Well, you’ve settled what you’re going to do, I suppose? It’s your show anyhow.”The telephone bell rang at that moment and interrupted the train of his ideas. He seated himself before his desk and took up the receiver. His face was a study in expressions while he listened.“Hullo! ... Yes. She’s here all right...”“It’s George speaking,” he looked up to remark for the general information.“Eh? ... Oh! yes; there’s been a devil of a shindy. It’s quieting down now. I think we’ve seen the worst of it. I hope it will serve to illustrate how absurdly inadequate our police force is. They’ve done wonders. There will be a few funerals over this. One or two Europeans killed, worse luck! ... You will? ... Right! We’ll keep her with us until you turn up. Good-bye.”He rang off, and looked up at Esmé with a wry face.“They’ve heard of the row; and George got the wind up about you. He’s motoring in later to fetch you. How did you get through? Were you roughly handled at all?”He surveyed the disorder of her hair, her torn and crumpled dress. She looked as though she had been in the thick of the mêlée. She nodded.“If Paul hadn’t been near I should have been killed,” she answered. “That was how we met. I was on my way here when a Kaffir got hold of me. Paul killed him.”“Well!” he said, and sat back and stared from one to the other in astonished curiosity. “I take it, that about settles it. It establishes his claim anyway. It seems like an act of Providence that he should be in the right spot at the right moment. I’m not going against that.”Hallam put out a hand and drew Esmé to his side.“I’m not for allowing any man to interfere between us,” he said in quiet authoritative tones. “She’s mine all right. We’re both agreed as to that.”Jim Bainbridge smiled dryly.“So it seems. Well, it’s the right course, I’ve no doubt.”He made a mental resolve that he would not be anywhere handy when the explanation with George took place. Thank Heaven, a man had his club to retire to in these domestic crises!“You’d better not show up at the house,” he observed to Hallam, “until we’ve broken the news to Rose. Shocks aren’t good for her. I’ve had as much excitement as I care about for one day.”Esmé crossed to his chair and stood beside it, resting a hand on his shoulder.“There’s one thing more, dear,” she said, with brightly flushed cheeks, and eyes carefully averted from Hallam’s. “I want you to ring up George and ask him to bring baby and nurse in the car. I am staying with you to-night.”“The kid, eh!”Swiftly he glanced at Hallam. Hallam remained rigid and said nothing.

What were they to do?

That was the question they asked each other as soon as they were able to collect their ideas and talk calmly.

Hallam had put her into Jim Bainbridge’s swivel-chair; and he sat on a corner of the writing-table, facing her, holding one of her hands in his. It was become to him now a matter simply of doing what was best for her happiness. Whatever she decided he resolved to abide by. She was the more injured; the settlement of their future must lie in her hands. His rights, his claim on her, which until now had held a paramount place in his thoughts, assumed an insignificance which rendered them negligible beside her supreme right to the direction of her own life.

“I’ll go, Esmé,—I’ll go now, if you wish it,” he said,—“if it would make things easier for you.”

He felt her fingers close round his, and said no more about going.

They sat hand in hand for a long while without speaking. Presently she moved slightly and lifted her face to his, white and wrung with emotion, with the stain of much weeping disfiguring it; but the sweetness of her look, the pathos in the eyes which met his, made her face seem more beautiful to him than ever before. He leaned over her and pressed his cheek to hers.

“Paul,” she whispered, “if it wasn’t for—It breaks my heart when I think of George.”

Sharply, as though her words stung him, he drew back.

“It’s going to hurt him badly,” she said. “And my baby... My poor little innocent baby!”

Hallam had nothing to say to that. The culminating disaster, the biggest and most appalling of the difficulties with which they were faced, was wrought by the existence of the child. He sat, gripping her hand hard, speechless and immeasurably disconcerted. What was there to say in face of her distress?

“I can’t think,” she said. “I’m all confused. This changes everything. I don’t know what to do. I don’t feel that I can go home. I haven’t got a home...”

She reflected awhile.

“George will have to be told. That is the part which is going to hurt. I can’t bear to think of it.”

“I’ll tell him,” Hallam said.

“No; not you.”

She spoke with a sort of repressed vehemence, and drew her hand from his, and sat with it clenched on the desk in front of her, her face working painfully.

“Oh! whatever made me do it?” she cried. “Why was I not satisfied to live with my memories? All this distress is of my making. Why did I do it?”

“God knows!” he returned with sudden bitterness. “If you had died, your memory would have been sacred to me.”

He regretted having said that as soon as the words were spoken. What right had he to reproach her for inconstancy? It was easy for him to remain faithful in thought to the wife who had never given him a moment’s pain. She had suffered—he knew that she must have suffered a great deal—on his account; but her love had remained unchanged through all the disappointment and the weary years of waiting. He held the foremost place in her heart. He was still her husband, to whom she had given the best of her love. She did not withdraw her heart from him. She wanted him, even as he wanted her: that assurance removed all doubt from his mind as to what they ought to do. He meant to have her.

He fell to talking quietly and reasonably about the situation. It was useless to indulge in recrimination and self-reproach: they must take a common-sense view of their case and make the best of the difficulties. These were not insoluble after all.

He was still talking, while Esmé listened to him with an air of anxious attention, when Jim Bainbridge walked in. From the clerk he had learned of the presence of his sister-in-law and of the stranger who had visited him on the previous day. The cat was out of the bag now for good or ill: the business of keeping Paul Hallam’s return secret had ceased to be any affair of his. He had wanted to biff the fellow out of it; had trusted that Hallam would see the inexpediency of his resuscitation stunt and clear off before the news of his return got about. And here they were, together—in his office! He was jolly well in the soup this time.

He came in looking harassed and startled, and stood inside the door, surveying them in a sort of worried amazement. The appearance of his sister-in-law shocked him. She looked as if she had been mixed up in the brawling in the streets; as if she had been rolled in the dust and badly hurt. His eyes met hers, and read reproach in them as she got up from his chair and came towards him.

“Jim, why didn’t you tell me this last night?” she said.

“I wouldn’t have told you, ever, if I’d had my way,” he answered, with the sulky manner of a man receiving an unmerited rebuke. “How did you come to find one another? If those blasted niggers hadn’t started raising Cain over the arrest of their blackguardly leader, I’d have been in my place here. Something always happens when I’m not on the spot. Well, you’ve settled what you’re going to do, I suppose? It’s your show anyhow.”

The telephone bell rang at that moment and interrupted the train of his ideas. He seated himself before his desk and took up the receiver. His face was a study in expressions while he listened.

“Hullo! ... Yes. She’s here all right...”

“It’s George speaking,” he looked up to remark for the general information.

“Eh? ... Oh! yes; there’s been a devil of a shindy. It’s quieting down now. I think we’ve seen the worst of it. I hope it will serve to illustrate how absurdly inadequate our police force is. They’ve done wonders. There will be a few funerals over this. One or two Europeans killed, worse luck! ... You will? ... Right! We’ll keep her with us until you turn up. Good-bye.”

He rang off, and looked up at Esmé with a wry face.

“They’ve heard of the row; and George got the wind up about you. He’s motoring in later to fetch you. How did you get through? Were you roughly handled at all?”

He surveyed the disorder of her hair, her torn and crumpled dress. She looked as though she had been in the thick of the mêlée. She nodded.

“If Paul hadn’t been near I should have been killed,” she answered. “That was how we met. I was on my way here when a Kaffir got hold of me. Paul killed him.”

“Well!” he said, and sat back and stared from one to the other in astonished curiosity. “I take it, that about settles it. It establishes his claim anyway. It seems like an act of Providence that he should be in the right spot at the right moment. I’m not going against that.”

Hallam put out a hand and drew Esmé to his side.

“I’m not for allowing any man to interfere between us,” he said in quiet authoritative tones. “She’s mine all right. We’re both agreed as to that.”

Jim Bainbridge smiled dryly.

“So it seems. Well, it’s the right course, I’ve no doubt.”

He made a mental resolve that he would not be anywhere handy when the explanation with George took place. Thank Heaven, a man had his club to retire to in these domestic crises!

“You’d better not show up at the house,” he observed to Hallam, “until we’ve broken the news to Rose. Shocks aren’t good for her. I’ve had as much excitement as I care about for one day.”

Esmé crossed to his chair and stood beside it, resting a hand on his shoulder.

“There’s one thing more, dear,” she said, with brightly flushed cheeks, and eyes carefully averted from Hallam’s. “I want you to ring up George and ask him to bring baby and nurse in the car. I am staying with you to-night.”

“The kid, eh!”

Swiftly he glanced at Hallam. Hallam remained rigid and said nothing.

Book Four—Chapter Thirty Six.The whole world changed for Esmé with the return of the husband she had mourned as dead. But for her sorrow on George Sinclair’s account, she could have found in her heart only room for rejoicing in the knowledge that Paul was alive and well instead, as she had been led to believe, of having died mysteriously and alone and been buried in a lonely grave. But the thought of George, of how this must hit him, haunted her distressfully. It grieved her to have to hurt him; he was so altogether fine and good. She felt like a cheat in relation to him. It seemed to her that she had stolen his love, stolen everything he had to give; and now she was about to steal his child from him and leave him sad and alone.If only she had remained steadfast, and had refused to marry him!The thought of the child tormented her anew, the child who would never know a father’s love. Fortunately the baby was so young that these matters could be kept from her knowledge until it seemed expedient to reveal them to her. Paul, however kind he might be, could never take a father’s place. Instinctively she realised that, though he accepted the position, he resented it keenly. The knowledge that the child was Esmé’s and not his galled him sorely. But from the moment when he was resolved to have his wife at all costs Hallam had made up his mind that the child would form a part of the new life. Deep down in his soul he had a sort of perception that in this mental scourging lay his punishment and possibly his ultimate salvation. He would be good to the child for the sake of the woman he loved, and who loved them both.He drove with Bainbridge and Esmé to the top of the hill, where he left them and walked the few yards to his hotel. The disturbance was over, and the rioters were in rapid retreat. They swarmed over the Donkin Reserve on their way to the locations. Many of them were injured, and, with the blood streaming from their wounds, presented a sufficiently unpleasant sight. The taxi turned into Havelock Street and stopped before the house, the door of which was opened promptly, and Rose, looking concerned and curious, came out upon the step. Her alarm increased when her eyes discovered Esmé’s dishevelled appearance.“Whatever’s happened?” she asked, and put out a hand and caught her sister’s arm.Bainbridge turned from paying the driver and followed them into the house.“Don’t make a fuss,” he said. “She’s upset.”There were tears in Esmé’s eyes; she looked white and altogether unstrung.“There’s been an accident?” Rose said.“It came pretty near to being a fatal accident,” Jim threw in helpfully. “One of those black devils got hold of her. If it hadn’t been for Paul she’d be as dead as mutton by now.”“What?” Rose ejaculated.“Paul’s turned up,” came the laconic information. “Turned up in the nick of time too. It seems he’s been a prisoner of war. Don’t say anything now. We are all feeling jumpy. He’s coming over in the morning.”Rose gasped in her astonishment. Her husband’s jerked out sentences, his perturbed and bothered look, as much as her sister’s evident agitation, kept her from putting the elucidatory questions which she longed to ask. She could scarcely believe this startling news, so abruptly given; it seemed to her incredible that Paul Hallam should be alive, and coming there. Gently she passed an arm about her sister’s shoulders and spoke to her soothingly.“You poor dear!” was all she said. “You poor dear!”Mary came running down the stairs, agog with excitement, and manifestly curious. But at the foot of the stairs she halted abruptly, and surveyed the group in the hall in wide-eyed amaze. Tactfully she disregarded Esmé’s tearful condition and confined her attention to the dilapidations of her attire.“You’ve been in the wars,” she said. “Come on up to my room; I’ll rig you out.”Jim Bainbridge, approving of his daughter’s handling of an embarrassing situation, looked after the pair as they went arm in arm up the stairs; then, in answer to the question in his wife’s eyes, he followed her into the sitting-room and entered into explanations.Rose took things more calmly than he had expected. The shock of the news left her bewildered and curiously at a loss for words. She found some difficulty in collecting her ideas.“I always said,” she remarked once, “that it was ridiculous to swear so positively to a man’s identity by the clothes he happened to be wearing.”And after reflection she added simply:“Poor George!”Bainbridge’s sympathies set strongly in the same direction.“That’s how I felt about it when Paul walked into my office yesterday,” he observed.“Yesterday!” she repeated. “You knew this yesterday? Why didn’t you tell me?”“For obvious reasons,” he answered. “I hoped when Paul heard of the second marriage he’d see the wisdom of clearing out. But he didn’t. I wonder how I would have acted had it been my case? Whether, if I had disappeared and returned to find you married again, I would have slipped away and left the other fellow in possession? Largely, of course,” he added reflectively, “it would depend on whether I wanted you.IfI had wanted you all right, the other fellow would have had to quit. That’s as plain as print anyway. No doubt I gave Paul fairly rotten advice. However he didn’t take it; so there it is.”“You are positively immoral,” Rose exclaimed indignantly. “There is no question about the matter at all. They are man and wife.”“I wasn’t dealing in morality in offering my advice,” he answered, grinning. “I was thinking of the simplest way out of the difficulty.”“The path of least resistance—yes,” she said. “And it didn’t strike you that in shirking difficulties one makes others? A fine crop of criminal complications you would have started. Besides, Paul isn’t a man to take advice.”“No; he is not to be moved from his purpose once his mind is made up. Incidentally, he’s rather a fine chap.”“He drinks,” she said.“I imagine he has learned control,” he returned quickly. “You are a little unfair in your judgment, aren’t you?”“Perhaps I am,” she allowed. “I never liked him. I resent his coming back and upsetting everything. What a talk there’ll be!”“Don’t overlook the fact that he saved us a funeral in the family,” he reminded her. “You can’t have it both ways. I consider it was providential his being on the spot. George stood to lose in either case.”“I hope he will take your philosophic view of the matter,” was all she returned. Then she left him to his reflections and went away to see about a meal.

The whole world changed for Esmé with the return of the husband she had mourned as dead. But for her sorrow on George Sinclair’s account, she could have found in her heart only room for rejoicing in the knowledge that Paul was alive and well instead, as she had been led to believe, of having died mysteriously and alone and been buried in a lonely grave. But the thought of George, of how this must hit him, haunted her distressfully. It grieved her to have to hurt him; he was so altogether fine and good. She felt like a cheat in relation to him. It seemed to her that she had stolen his love, stolen everything he had to give; and now she was about to steal his child from him and leave him sad and alone.

If only she had remained steadfast, and had refused to marry him!

The thought of the child tormented her anew, the child who would never know a father’s love. Fortunately the baby was so young that these matters could be kept from her knowledge until it seemed expedient to reveal them to her. Paul, however kind he might be, could never take a father’s place. Instinctively she realised that, though he accepted the position, he resented it keenly. The knowledge that the child was Esmé’s and not his galled him sorely. But from the moment when he was resolved to have his wife at all costs Hallam had made up his mind that the child would form a part of the new life. Deep down in his soul he had a sort of perception that in this mental scourging lay his punishment and possibly his ultimate salvation. He would be good to the child for the sake of the woman he loved, and who loved them both.

He drove with Bainbridge and Esmé to the top of the hill, where he left them and walked the few yards to his hotel. The disturbance was over, and the rioters were in rapid retreat. They swarmed over the Donkin Reserve on their way to the locations. Many of them were injured, and, with the blood streaming from their wounds, presented a sufficiently unpleasant sight. The taxi turned into Havelock Street and stopped before the house, the door of which was opened promptly, and Rose, looking concerned and curious, came out upon the step. Her alarm increased when her eyes discovered Esmé’s dishevelled appearance.

“Whatever’s happened?” she asked, and put out a hand and caught her sister’s arm.

Bainbridge turned from paying the driver and followed them into the house.

“Don’t make a fuss,” he said. “She’s upset.”

There were tears in Esmé’s eyes; she looked white and altogether unstrung.

“There’s been an accident?” Rose said.

“It came pretty near to being a fatal accident,” Jim threw in helpfully. “One of those black devils got hold of her. If it hadn’t been for Paul she’d be as dead as mutton by now.”

“What?” Rose ejaculated.

“Paul’s turned up,” came the laconic information. “Turned up in the nick of time too. It seems he’s been a prisoner of war. Don’t say anything now. We are all feeling jumpy. He’s coming over in the morning.”

Rose gasped in her astonishment. Her husband’s jerked out sentences, his perturbed and bothered look, as much as her sister’s evident agitation, kept her from putting the elucidatory questions which she longed to ask. She could scarcely believe this startling news, so abruptly given; it seemed to her incredible that Paul Hallam should be alive, and coming there. Gently she passed an arm about her sister’s shoulders and spoke to her soothingly.

“You poor dear!” was all she said. “You poor dear!”

Mary came running down the stairs, agog with excitement, and manifestly curious. But at the foot of the stairs she halted abruptly, and surveyed the group in the hall in wide-eyed amaze. Tactfully she disregarded Esmé’s tearful condition and confined her attention to the dilapidations of her attire.

“You’ve been in the wars,” she said. “Come on up to my room; I’ll rig you out.”

Jim Bainbridge, approving of his daughter’s handling of an embarrassing situation, looked after the pair as they went arm in arm up the stairs; then, in answer to the question in his wife’s eyes, he followed her into the sitting-room and entered into explanations.

Rose took things more calmly than he had expected. The shock of the news left her bewildered and curiously at a loss for words. She found some difficulty in collecting her ideas.

“I always said,” she remarked once, “that it was ridiculous to swear so positively to a man’s identity by the clothes he happened to be wearing.”

And after reflection she added simply:

“Poor George!”

Bainbridge’s sympathies set strongly in the same direction.

“That’s how I felt about it when Paul walked into my office yesterday,” he observed.

“Yesterday!” she repeated. “You knew this yesterday? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“For obvious reasons,” he answered. “I hoped when Paul heard of the second marriage he’d see the wisdom of clearing out. But he didn’t. I wonder how I would have acted had it been my case? Whether, if I had disappeared and returned to find you married again, I would have slipped away and left the other fellow in possession? Largely, of course,” he added reflectively, “it would depend on whether I wanted you.IfI had wanted you all right, the other fellow would have had to quit. That’s as plain as print anyway. No doubt I gave Paul fairly rotten advice. However he didn’t take it; so there it is.”

“You are positively immoral,” Rose exclaimed indignantly. “There is no question about the matter at all. They are man and wife.”

“I wasn’t dealing in morality in offering my advice,” he answered, grinning. “I was thinking of the simplest way out of the difficulty.”

“The path of least resistance—yes,” she said. “And it didn’t strike you that in shirking difficulties one makes others? A fine crop of criminal complications you would have started. Besides, Paul isn’t a man to take advice.”

“No; he is not to be moved from his purpose once his mind is made up. Incidentally, he’s rather a fine chap.”

“He drinks,” she said.

“I imagine he has learned control,” he returned quickly. “You are a little unfair in your judgment, aren’t you?”

“Perhaps I am,” she allowed. “I never liked him. I resent his coming back and upsetting everything. What a talk there’ll be!”

“Don’t overlook the fact that he saved us a funeral in the family,” he reminded her. “You can’t have it both ways. I consider it was providential his being on the spot. George stood to lose in either case.”

“I hope he will take your philosophic view of the matter,” was all she returned. Then she left him to his reflections and went away to see about a meal.

Book Four—Chapter Thirty Seven.It had been a day of varied experiences of big moments, fraught with terror and relief, joy and sorrow, inextricably interwoven. The eventful day was followed by a night of correspondingly deep emotions, a night of painful revelation and much anguish of mind for Esmé, as well as for the man who was to learn from the lips of the woman he loved, and whom he believed was his wife, that she had never been legally married to him, that her husband was alive, that she and the child, which was his, were leaving him finally.They talked late into the night, sitting opposite to one another, with a small table between them on which Rose had placed two cups of coffee, before she left them alone together, and went softly upstairs to take a look at the baby, asleep in its improvised cot.The little house was overcrowded that night, so that John was forced to sling a hammock on the balcony and sleep out in the open air. It was also a very quiet house; a house in which every one walked softly and spoke in whispers and went about with concerned and anxious faces. The master of the house stayed late at his club, and slipped in quietly on his return and crept past the sitting-room door and went softly upstairs to bed.And the man and the woman within the room talked on fragmentally, heedless of everything beyond the confines of those four walls which gave privacy to their interview, to the man’s grief, and the woman’s unutterable sympathy with his sorrow.George Sinclair sat forward in his seat, with his hands dropped between his knees, staring before him with blurred unseeing eyes. Occasionally he beat the knuckles of one clenched hand softly with the palm of the other, with an action pitiful to watch, suggesting, as it did, intense emotion hardly repressed. He did not say much. The situation had gone beyond words. He sat there, tense and quiet, trying to grasp the fact that she was not his wife, never had been his wife, that their married life had been a sham. And now he had to give way. There was no course left to him but to pass out of her life altogether. And he loved her, worshipped her. Life without her would be entirely blank. He could not realise living without her. To know that she was in the world somewhere and that he must not see her, speak to her, touch her ever again after to-day...The thought was torture. It was also fantastically unreal. He felt like a man in a dream, faced by an absurdly impossible situation, which was nevertheless distressing and horrible, which he believed would fade if he could only wake. But he could not wake; and the dream became more real, more terribly convincing with every passing moment.Why, in the name of reason, had he not been shot in France and thus saved this refinement of torture? It would have spared Esmé unnecessary suffering also. It seemed monstrous that through his love for her he should hurt her, that by their marriage they should have all unconsciously injured one another grievously. Wherever she might be, however happy she was in her love for Paul and for her child, always there must linger in her mind a regret when she thought of him alone with his memories of his brief happiness and his enduring sorrow.“Don’t reproach yourself,” he said, once, looking up in response to something she said in self-condemnation, and meeting her saddened eyes fully. “The trouble is none of your making. I don’t see that you are to blame anyway. I worried you into it. You know,”—he leaned towards her and took hold of her hands where they lay along the table,—“I can’t regret our marriage, Esmé. It’s been a wonderful time. It’s something to remember when—when I’ve nothing else left of you. If it wasn’t that I know you love Paul better than ever you loved me, I’d not give you up. But the law and your happiness are both on one side. I’m out of the picture altogether.”She made no reply. She felt that it would not be kindness to urge on him then how much she cared for him. She loved him, not as she loved Paul, but with a strong and tender affection that would keep his memory warm and vivid in her thoughts always.“I shall never forget you—the sweetness and the dearness of you,” he added. “It’s a big blow, Esmé, to be forced apart now. Dear, I don’t know how I’ll stand it... No matter; we won’t think of that part of it. One gets used to most things, I imagine.”He was silent again for a while. He had released her hands and returned to his former attitude, and to his action of beating one hand upon the other. Esmé watched him, biting her lip to stop its trembling, and with difficulty holding back her tears. What could she do, what could she say, in face of this misery which she was powerless to avert?Presently she rose from her seat, and went to him, and kneeled on the carpet beside him, and put her hands over his hands to quiet their painful movement.“George,” she said softly, “it stabs me to the heart to see you grieve so. What can I say? You’ve been so good to me. I love you for your goodness. I’ll remember you with gratitude every day—every hour of every day, so long as I live. My dear boy! my dear boy! I can’t bear it when you look so sad.”She was sobbing now, sobbing and choking with emotion. He took her face between his hands and smiled at her, with a smile that was infinitely sadder than tears, and bent forward and kissed her gently.“Poor, weary little woman!” he said. “That white face, with its tired eyes, ought to be on the pillow. Come upstairs, and let me take a look at the baby before I go.”He helped her on to her feet; and, hand in hand, softly and in silence, they went upstairs and stood side by side looking down on the unconscious beauty of their sleeping child.“She forms a link,” he said. “When her blue eyes look into your eyes, you’ll remember.”He bent down and laid his hand over the baby hands and kissed the soft cheek.“I’ll miss her,” he said; and straightened himself and turned away from the cot abruptly.Esmé followed him to the door.“No; don’t come down. We’ll part here. I can let myself out.”He took her by the shoulders and held her a little way off, looking at her long and earnestly as though he wished to impress her features on his memory for ever.“Some time in the far off future we may meet again,” he said. “God knows. Anyhow, you will live always in my heart. Good-bye, and God bless you.”His hands slipped to the back of her shoulders, drew her to him, held her. She lifted her face to his; and in the dimly lit room where the baby slept, and where the man was to part from both wife and child, they clung together and kissed for the last time, not as lovers, but solemnly and tenderly, as dear friends embrace, knowing they may never meet again. Then the man went swiftly down the stairs and let himself quietly out of the house.

It had been a day of varied experiences of big moments, fraught with terror and relief, joy and sorrow, inextricably interwoven. The eventful day was followed by a night of correspondingly deep emotions, a night of painful revelation and much anguish of mind for Esmé, as well as for the man who was to learn from the lips of the woman he loved, and whom he believed was his wife, that she had never been legally married to him, that her husband was alive, that she and the child, which was his, were leaving him finally.

They talked late into the night, sitting opposite to one another, with a small table between them on which Rose had placed two cups of coffee, before she left them alone together, and went softly upstairs to take a look at the baby, asleep in its improvised cot.

The little house was overcrowded that night, so that John was forced to sling a hammock on the balcony and sleep out in the open air. It was also a very quiet house; a house in which every one walked softly and spoke in whispers and went about with concerned and anxious faces. The master of the house stayed late at his club, and slipped in quietly on his return and crept past the sitting-room door and went softly upstairs to bed.

And the man and the woman within the room talked on fragmentally, heedless of everything beyond the confines of those four walls which gave privacy to their interview, to the man’s grief, and the woman’s unutterable sympathy with his sorrow.

George Sinclair sat forward in his seat, with his hands dropped between his knees, staring before him with blurred unseeing eyes. Occasionally he beat the knuckles of one clenched hand softly with the palm of the other, with an action pitiful to watch, suggesting, as it did, intense emotion hardly repressed. He did not say much. The situation had gone beyond words. He sat there, tense and quiet, trying to grasp the fact that she was not his wife, never had been his wife, that their married life had been a sham. And now he had to give way. There was no course left to him but to pass out of her life altogether. And he loved her, worshipped her. Life without her would be entirely blank. He could not realise living without her. To know that she was in the world somewhere and that he must not see her, speak to her, touch her ever again after to-day...

The thought was torture. It was also fantastically unreal. He felt like a man in a dream, faced by an absurdly impossible situation, which was nevertheless distressing and horrible, which he believed would fade if he could only wake. But he could not wake; and the dream became more real, more terribly convincing with every passing moment.

Why, in the name of reason, had he not been shot in France and thus saved this refinement of torture? It would have spared Esmé unnecessary suffering also. It seemed monstrous that through his love for her he should hurt her, that by their marriage they should have all unconsciously injured one another grievously. Wherever she might be, however happy she was in her love for Paul and for her child, always there must linger in her mind a regret when she thought of him alone with his memories of his brief happiness and his enduring sorrow.

“Don’t reproach yourself,” he said, once, looking up in response to something she said in self-condemnation, and meeting her saddened eyes fully. “The trouble is none of your making. I don’t see that you are to blame anyway. I worried you into it. You know,”—he leaned towards her and took hold of her hands where they lay along the table,—“I can’t regret our marriage, Esmé. It’s been a wonderful time. It’s something to remember when—when I’ve nothing else left of you. If it wasn’t that I know you love Paul better than ever you loved me, I’d not give you up. But the law and your happiness are both on one side. I’m out of the picture altogether.”

She made no reply. She felt that it would not be kindness to urge on him then how much she cared for him. She loved him, not as she loved Paul, but with a strong and tender affection that would keep his memory warm and vivid in her thoughts always.

“I shall never forget you—the sweetness and the dearness of you,” he added. “It’s a big blow, Esmé, to be forced apart now. Dear, I don’t know how I’ll stand it... No matter; we won’t think of that part of it. One gets used to most things, I imagine.”

He was silent again for a while. He had released her hands and returned to his former attitude, and to his action of beating one hand upon the other. Esmé watched him, biting her lip to stop its trembling, and with difficulty holding back her tears. What could she do, what could she say, in face of this misery which she was powerless to avert?

Presently she rose from her seat, and went to him, and kneeled on the carpet beside him, and put her hands over his hands to quiet their painful movement.

“George,” she said softly, “it stabs me to the heart to see you grieve so. What can I say? You’ve been so good to me. I love you for your goodness. I’ll remember you with gratitude every day—every hour of every day, so long as I live. My dear boy! my dear boy! I can’t bear it when you look so sad.”

She was sobbing now, sobbing and choking with emotion. He took her face between his hands and smiled at her, with a smile that was infinitely sadder than tears, and bent forward and kissed her gently.

“Poor, weary little woman!” he said. “That white face, with its tired eyes, ought to be on the pillow. Come upstairs, and let me take a look at the baby before I go.”

He helped her on to her feet; and, hand in hand, softly and in silence, they went upstairs and stood side by side looking down on the unconscious beauty of their sleeping child.

“She forms a link,” he said. “When her blue eyes look into your eyes, you’ll remember.”

He bent down and laid his hand over the baby hands and kissed the soft cheek.

“I’ll miss her,” he said; and straightened himself and turned away from the cot abruptly.

Esmé followed him to the door.

“No; don’t come down. We’ll part here. I can let myself out.”

He took her by the shoulders and held her a little way off, looking at her long and earnestly as though he wished to impress her features on his memory for ever.

“Some time in the far off future we may meet again,” he said. “God knows. Anyhow, you will live always in my heart. Good-bye, and God bless you.”

His hands slipped to the back of her shoulders, drew her to him, held her. She lifted her face to his; and in the dimly lit room where the baby slept, and where the man was to part from both wife and child, they clung together and kissed for the last time, not as lovers, but solemnly and tenderly, as dear friends embrace, knowing they may never meet again. Then the man went swiftly down the stairs and let himself quietly out of the house.

Book Four—Chapter Thirty Eight.Sleep was long in coming to Esmé that night.She lay in the little bed in the room where, as a girl, she had slept soundly in the untroubled days before love had entered into her life, lay wide-eyed in the hot stillness, with the heavy scent of the oleander stealing into the room, perfuming the night, filling the little garden and the surrounding air with its sweetness, bringing back with its familiar fragrance a rush of memories, shy sweet memories of the days when Paul was her lover and she slept with his letters beneath her pillow and sometimes dreamed of him.So much had happened since those care-free days to change her, to alter all her views of life, that the girl who had slept there before seemed almost a stranger to her. One quality they shared in common; there was one flaming harmony across their sky amid the wind-swept clouds of discontent and passing griefs and early intolerances, love. The girl had lain there and dreamed of love, and felt love aglow in her heart; the woman lay there with heart and brain filled with love—compassionate love, deep and tender and protective in quality—for her husband, for the man who loved her as a husband, and for the small life which God had given her to complete her world.These three lives, so intimately and closely associated with her own, asserted each its separate claim. Never could she forget, or cease to think kindly and with grateful heart, of the man who was the father of her child. She would love the child more tenderly through her undying affection for George Sinclair. The child forged a link, as he had said, between them for all time.But above and beyond everything, like a sun set in the sky amid the lesser luminaries, shone her love for Paul Hallam; a great white flame of love that made the crown and glory of her life.As she thought of Paul, of his struggle and his suffering, her tears fell freely. His claim was stronger than the other claims, his need of her the greater.With the dawn her mind became more tranquil, less feverishly alert; the curtain of formless thoughts, of futile striving to understand, hung away from her weary brain; and sleep came to her, calm and peaceful sleep, blotting out the sorrows and the joys which go to the making of every life.

Sleep was long in coming to Esmé that night.

She lay in the little bed in the room where, as a girl, she had slept soundly in the untroubled days before love had entered into her life, lay wide-eyed in the hot stillness, with the heavy scent of the oleander stealing into the room, perfuming the night, filling the little garden and the surrounding air with its sweetness, bringing back with its familiar fragrance a rush of memories, shy sweet memories of the days when Paul was her lover and she slept with his letters beneath her pillow and sometimes dreamed of him.

So much had happened since those care-free days to change her, to alter all her views of life, that the girl who had slept there before seemed almost a stranger to her. One quality they shared in common; there was one flaming harmony across their sky amid the wind-swept clouds of discontent and passing griefs and early intolerances, love. The girl had lain there and dreamed of love, and felt love aglow in her heart; the woman lay there with heart and brain filled with love—compassionate love, deep and tender and protective in quality—for her husband, for the man who loved her as a husband, and for the small life which God had given her to complete her world.

These three lives, so intimately and closely associated with her own, asserted each its separate claim. Never could she forget, or cease to think kindly and with grateful heart, of the man who was the father of her child. She would love the child more tenderly through her undying affection for George Sinclair. The child forged a link, as he had said, between them for all time.

But above and beyond everything, like a sun set in the sky amid the lesser luminaries, shone her love for Paul Hallam; a great white flame of love that made the crown and glory of her life.

As she thought of Paul, of his struggle and his suffering, her tears fell freely. His claim was stronger than the other claims, his need of her the greater.

With the dawn her mind became more tranquil, less feverishly alert; the curtain of formless thoughts, of futile striving to understand, hung away from her weary brain; and sleep came to her, calm and peaceful sleep, blotting out the sorrows and the joys which go to the making of every life.

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