Tyson returned by the end of the following week. He found his wife in the
big hall. She was standing by the fireplace, with one foot on the
curbstone of the hearth, the other lifted a little to the blaze. Her arms
lay along the chimney-piece, her head drooped over them. Her back was
towards him as he came in, and she did not turn at the sound of his
footsteps. He went up to her, put his arm round her waist and led her
gently into the library. She had started violently at his touch, but she
made no resistance. He meant to kiss and comfort her.
"Darling," he said, "I was awfully cut up. Tell me about the poor little
beggar."
He held her closer. His breath was like flame against her cheek. When he
spoke he coughed--a short hard cough.
She pushed against his arm and broke from him. Then she turned. "Don't
speak of him! Don't speak of him!"
"I won't, dear, if you'd rather not. Only don't think I didn't care."
"Don't tell me you cared!" She held her arms outstretched, the hands
clenched. Her small body was tense with passion. "Don't tell me. It's
a lie. You never cared. You hated him from the first. You kept me from
him lest I should love him better than you. You would have taken me away
and left him here. You were cruel. And you knew it. You stayed away
because you knew it. You were afraid, and no wonder. I know why you did
it. You thought I didn't love you. Was that the way to make me love you?"
"Molly," he said faintly, "I didn't know. I never thought you'd take it
to heart that way. Come--" He held out his hand.
She too had said "Come." She remembered the answer: "Impossible."
"No," she said. "I won't. I can't. I don't want to have anything to do
with you. What were you doing all those days when he was dying?"
He slunk from her, conscience-stricken. "My dear Molly," he said, "I'm
awfully sorry, but you're a damned little fool. You'd better hold your
tongue before you say something you'll be sorry for."
"I'm going to hold my tongue. If I pleased myself I should never speak to
you again."
Ah, she had said something very like that not long before.
He sighed heavily. Then he drew a chair up to the fire and lowered
himself carefully into it. He was shivering.
"All right," he muttered between chattering teeth. "Get me some brandy,
will you? You can do that without speaking."
"Nevill--what's the matter?"
"Nothing. I've got an infernally bad chill coming here, that's all."
She flew for the brandy.
Yes; there was no mistake about it. It was an infernally bad chill, and
it saved him.