Part 6 (1/2)

”No,” said Ormsgill dryly. ”I should be sorry to admit as much. But if he had been, would that have rendered a promise to him less binding?”

”Yes,” said the elder lady st.u.r.dily. ”If he really felt any remorse at all--of which I am very dubious--he brought it upon himself. One cannot do wrong without bearing the consequences. Still, I do not suppose it was penitence. It was more probably pagan fear of death.

The man, you admit, was under priestly influence. Of course, if he had been brought up differently----”

Ormsgill could not help a little smile. ”He would have considered repentance sufficient, and left the woman to bear the consequences?

Somehow I have a hazy notion that rest.i.tution is insisted on. But if we dismiss that subject there are still the boys. You see, I pledged myself to send them home again.”

Ada Ratcliffe looked up, and her expression was quietly disdainful.

”Half-naked, thick-lipped n.i.g.g.e.rs. Would it hurt them very much to work a little and become a trifle civilized? One understands that there is no actual slavery in any part of Africa under European control.”

Ormsgill winced, and it was, perhaps, only natural that Mrs. Ratcliffe should not understand why he did so. Then his face grew a trifle hard, but he answered quietly.

”I have no doubt there are folks who would tell you so, but there is, at least, something very like it in one or two colonies,” he said.

”Still, that is not quite the point.”

The girl laughed. ”I am a little afraid there is no point at all.”

She rose languidly, and the way she did so suggested collusion, though Ormsgill had not noticed that her mother made her any sign. She swept past him with a swish of filmy fabric, and he turned to the elder lady, who made a little gesture of resignation.

”It seems,” she said, ”you are determined to go, and in that case there is something to be said. As you are bent on exposing yourself to the hazards of a climate I have heard described as deadly, one has to consider--eventualities.”

”Exactly!” and Ormsgill found it difficult to repress a sardonic smile. ”I have endeavored to provide against them in the one way possible to me. An hour ago I handed Major Chillingham a doc.u.ment which will place Ada in possession of a considerable proportion of my property in six months from my death. The absence of any word from me for that period is to be considered as proof of it. I have no relatives with any claim on me, and I think I am only carrying out an obligation.”

”You are very generous,” and his companion's tone was expressive of sincere satisfaction. ”Though it is, of course, painful, one is reluctantly compelled to take these things into consideration.”

She said rather more to the same effect, and the man's face, which was a trifle hard when she went away, suggested that some, at least, of her observations had jarred on him. He was also somewhat astonished to find Ada waiting for him when he strolled moodily into the big drawing-room.

”Tom,” she said, ”you won't go back there, after all. I don't want you to.”

There was a tinge of color in her cheeks and a tense appeal in her eyes, and for a moment Ormsgill was almost tempted to forget his promise and break his word. It seemed that she did care, though he had scarcely fancied that she would feel the parting with him very much a little while ago, and something suggested that she was apprehensive, too. He stood very still, and she saw him slowly close one of his hands.

”My dear,” he said, ”I have to go.”

The girl looked at him steadily a moment, and then made a little hopeless gesture of resignation.

”In that case I should gain nothing by attempting to urge you,” she said with a curious quietness. ”Still, Tom, you will write to me when you can.”

Ormsgill was stirred, as well as a trifle astonished. She had seldom shown him very much tenderness, and he had said nothing that might lead her to believe that he was undertaking a somewhat dangerous thing or that the country was especially unhealthy. Still, he could not help feeling that she was afraid of something. Then, as it happened, they heard her mother speaking to somebody in the corridor, and making him a little sign she slipped out softly. Ormsgill sat where he was, wondering why she had done so, until a rustle of dresses suggested that she and the people she had apparently spoken to had moved away.

Then he went out, and met Desmond in front of the hotel.

”Been having it out with Mrs. Ratcliffe?” he said. ”I saw you on the veranda. Found it rather difficult? I couldn't stand that old woman.”

”It was not exactly pleasant,” said Ormsgill, dryly.

Desmond grinned. ”Told her what you were going back for--and she didn't believe a word of it? As a matter of fact, you could hardly expect her to. Still, you needn't be unduly anxious. It wouldn't matter very much what you did out there. She might be horrified when she heard of it, but she wouldn't let you go.”

The blood rose to Ormsgill's face. He fancied his companion was right in this, but it suggested another thought, and it appeared impossible that the girl's views should coincide with her mother's. It was painful to feel that she might have placed an unfavorable construction upon his narrative, but that she should believe him a libertine and still be willing to marry him because he was rich was a thing he shrank with horror from admitting. He was aware that women now and then made such marriages, but although he did not as a rule expect too much of human nature, he looked for a good deal from the woman he meant to make his wife. He could not quite disguise the fact that there were aspects of her character which did not altogether please him.

”Well,” he said grimly, ”we will talk about something else. You are still determined on going with me?”