Part 43 (1/2)

Eve had been a year in D'Erraha--the whole of her married life. The Count de Lloseta placed the house at their disposal for the honeymoon. Fitz and she came to stay a month; they had remained twelve. It is often so in Majorca. A number of Spaniards came six hundred years ago--nine families; the nine names are there to-day.

Fitz had taken D'Erraha on the Minorcan rotas lease, so the old valley, the old house, was his.

Eve was not alone on the terrace, for a certain small gentleman, called Henry Cyprian FitzHenry, a prospective sailor, lay in a pink and perfect slumber on her lap. Henry Cyprian fully appreciated the valley of repose.

Eve was reading a letter--a lamentable scrawl, by the way--obviously the work of a hand little used to the pen.

”My dearie,” the letter ran; and it bore the address--Malabar Cottage, Somarsh, Suffolk.

”MY DEARIE,--Please thank your good husband for his letter to me announcing the birth of your son. I hope the little man is doing well. Make a sailor of him. Being one myself I have had opportunity of noticing seafaring men under different circ.u.mstances, and I have never had an occasion to be ashamed of a s.h.i.+pmate, only excepting when he was drunk, which is human, so to speak. Thanking the captain kindly for his inquiries, I have to advise that all is going well at Malabar Cottage. The cottage keeps taut and staunch; and now that my old s.h.i.+pmate Creary has joined me, we keep to the weather side of the butcher's bill without any difficulty. We pull along on a even keel wonderfully well, Creary being a good-natured man, and as pleasant a s.h.i.+pmate as one could wish. He has brought his bits of things with him, and alongside of mine they make a homely look. I miss your voice about the house, and sometimes I feel a bit lonely, but being a rough seafaring man I know that Malabar Cottage was hardly fit for a lady like yourself. The Count de Lloseta has twice been down to see me, sitting affable down to our bit of lunch with us and making Creary laugh till he choked. I don't rightly understand how it was that the Count and your good husband the captain (R.N.) fixed up my money affairs, getting so much of it back from Merton's while others haven't had a halfpenny.

I asked the Count to explain, which he did at some length. But I didn't rightly understand it, never having had a good head for figures, though I could always work out my sums near enough to fix her position on the chart at mid-day. I take it that Mr. Lloseta has got a gift for financials, leastwise he pays me my money most regular, and last time there was two pounds more. I am sure I ought to feel thankful that I have such good friends, and people, too, so much above me. I understand that the Count de Lloseta is going out to Majorca this autumn. He is a good man.--Your affectionate uncle,

”WILLIAM JOHN BONTNOR (Master).”

Eve read this effusion with a queer little smile which had no mirth in it. She folded the letter carefully and laid it aside for her husband to see when he returned. Then she fell into a reverie, looking down over the great silent valley that lay between her and the sea. She had been out into the world and had come back to D'Erraha again. In the world she had had a somewhat singular experience. She had never loved a woman, she had never known a woman's love. One man after another had come into her life, pa.s.sing across the field of her mental vision when it was most susceptible to impression, each influencing her life in his own way, each loving her in his own way, each claiming her love. Here was a woman, the mother of a boy, whose every thought had been formed by men, whose knowledge had been acquired from men, whose world was a world of men. She would not have known what to do with a daughter, so Fate had sent her a son. From the Caballero Challoner to Fitz, from Fitz to Captain Bontnor, from Captain Bontnor to John Craik, and from Craik back to Fitz, this, with Cipriani de Lloseta ever coming and going, in and out, had been Eve FitzHenry's life.

These men had only taught her to be a woman, as men ever do; but from them she had acquired the broader way of taking life, the larger way of thinking, which promised well for Henry Cyprian lying asleep on her lap.

She was thinking of these men, for all they had taught her, of all she had learnt from them without their knowing it, when one of them came to her. Fitz had dismounted in the patio and came walking somewhat stiffly through to the terrace. He had been out all day on a distant part of the D'Erraha property, for he combined the farmer and the sailor. He had applied for a year's leave after having served his country for fifteen. The year had run into fifteen months, and there was talk of the time when he should go to sea no longer.

Fitz had changed little. The cloud, however, that had formerly hung as it were in his eyes had vanished. Eve had driven it away, slowly and surely. Perhaps Henry Cyprian had something to do in the matter also by pus.h.i.+ng his uncle Luke out of the place he had hitherto occupied in Fitz's heart. Luke had voluntarily relinquished the place to a certain degree. He had left England three years before to seek his fortune in other seas, and Fortune had come to him as she often does when she is sought half-heartedly. Luke commanded one of the finest war-s.h.i.+ps afloat, but she sailed under the Chilean flag.

”Letters,” said Fitz.

Eve smiled and handed him Captain Bontnor's epistle. She watched his face as he read--she had a trick of watching her husband's face.

This was a hopelessly taciturn man, but Eve seemed to understand him.

There was another letter unopened and addressed to Fitz. He took it up and opened it leisurely, after the manner of one who has all he wants and looks for nothing by post.

Eve saw his face brighten with surprise. He read the letter through, and then he handed it to her.

”Lloseta,” he said, ”is coming. He is in Barcelona.”

Eve read the letter. She leant back in her deep chair with a pensiveness, a faint suggestion of weariness bespeaking the end of a convalescence, which was perhaps climatic.

”I have never understood the Count,” she said. ”There are so many people one does not understand.”

She broke off with a little laugh, half impatient.

”Yes,” said her husband quietly. ”Whom are you thinking of?”

”Agatha.”

Fitz was gazing at the fine quartz gravel beneath his feet.

”Agatha cared for Luke,” he said.

A faint flicker of anxiety pa.s.sed across Eve's eyes--the mention of Luke's name always brought it. She had never seen this twin brother--this shadow as it were of Fitz's life--and it had been slowly borne in upon her--perhaps Henry Cyprian had taught her--that there is a tie between twins which no man can gauge nor tell whither it may lead.