Chance

Anthony shook his head. "It would take no end of generosity, no end of

gentleness to forgive such a dead set. For my part I would have liked

better to have been killed and done with at once. It could not have been

worse for you--and I suppose it was of you that he was thinking most

while those infernal lawyers were badgering him in court. Of you. And

now I think of it perhaps the sight of you may bring it all back to him.

All these years, all these years--and you his child left alone in the

world. I would have gone crazy. For even if he had done wrong--"

"But he hasn't," insisted Flora de Barral with a quite unexpected

fierceness. "You mustn't even suppose it. Haven't you read the accounts

of the trial?"

"I am not supposing anything," Anthony defended himself. He just

remembered hearing of the trial. He assured her that he was away from

England, the second voyage of the Ferndale. He was crossing the

Pacific from Australia at the time and didn't see any papers for weeks

and weeks. He interrupted himself to suggest:

"You had better tell him at once that you are happy."

He had stammered a little, and Flora de Barral uttered a deliberate and

concise "Yes."

A short silence ensued. She withdrew her hand from his arm. They

stopped. Anthony looked as if a totally unexpected catastrophe had

happened.

"Ah," he said. "You mind . . . "

"No! I think I had better," she murmured.

"I dare say. I dare say. Bring him along straight on board to-morrow.

Stop nowhere."

She had a movement of vague gratitude, a momentary feeling of peace which

she referred to the man before her. She looked up at Anthony. His face

was sombre. He was miles away and muttered as if to himself:

"Where could he want to stop though?"

"There's not a single being on earth that I would want to look at his

dear face now, to whom I would willingly take him," she said extending

her hand frankly and with a slight break in her voice, "but

you--Roderick."

He took that hand, felt it very small and delicate in his broad palm.

"That's right. That's right," he said with a conscious and hasty

heartiness and, as if suddenly ashamed of the sound of his voice, turned

half round and absolutely walked away from the motionless girl. He even

resisted the temptation to look back till it was too late. The gravel

path lay empty to the very gate of the park. She was gone--vanished. He

had an impression that he had missed some sort of chance. He felt sad.

That excited sense of his own conduct which had kept him up for the last

ten days buoyed him no more. He had succeeded!