Part 5 (1/2)

”Oh! I say though, what's happened? Where am I?”

Katherine leant down, kissed his hand, caressed it.

”Here, my dearest,” she said, ”at home, at Brockhurst, with me.”

”Ah yes!” he said, ”of course, I remember, I'm dying.” He waited a little s.p.a.ce, and then, turning his head on the pillow so as to have a better view of her, spoke again:--”I was floating right out--the under-tow had got me--it was sucking me down into the deep sea of mist and dreams. I was so nearly gone--and you brought me back.”

”But I wanted you so--I wanted you so,” Katherine cried, smitten with sudden contrition. ”I could not help it. Do you mind?”

”You silly sweet, could I ever mind coming back to you?” he asked wistfully. ”Don't you suppose I would much rather stay here at Brockhurst, at home, with you--than sink away into the unknown?”

”Ah! my dear,” she said, swaying herself to and fro in the misery of tearless grief.

”And yet I have no call to complain,” he went on. ”I have had thirty years of life and health. It is not a small thing to have seen the sun, and to have rejoiced in one's youth. And I have had you”--his face hardened and his breath came short--”you, most enchanting of women.”

”My dear, my dear!” Katherine cried, again bowing her head.

”G.o.d has been so good to me here that--I hope it is not presumptuous--I can't be much afraid of what is to follow. The best argument for what will be, is what has been. Don't you think so?”

”But you go and I stay,” she said. ”If I could only go too, go with you.”

Richard Calmady raised himself in the bed, looked hard at her, spoke as a man in the fulness of his strength.

”Do you mean that? Would you come with me if you could--come through the deep sea of mist and dreams, to whatever lies beyond?”

For all answer Katherine bent lower, her face suddenly radiant, notwithstanding its pallor. Sorrow was still so new a companion to her that she would dare the most desperate adventures to rid herself of its hateful presence. Her reason and moral sense were in abeyance, only her poor heart spoke. She laid hold of her husband's hands and clasped them about her throat.

”Let us go together, take me,” she prayed. ”I love you, I will not be left. Closer, d.i.c.k, closer.”

”Thank G.o.d! I am strong enough even yet,” he said fiercely, while his jaw set, and his grasp tightened somewhat dangerously upon her throat.

Katherine looked into his eyes and laughed. The blood was tingling through her veins.

”Ah! dear love,” she panted, ”if you knew how delicious it is to be a little hurt!”

But her ecstasy was short-lived, as ecstasy usually is. Richard Calmady unclasped his hands and dropped back against the pillows, putting her away from him with a certain authority.

”My beloved one, do not tempt me,” he said, ”we must remember the child. The devil of jealousy is very great, even when one lies, as I do now, more than half dead.” He turned his head away, and his voice shook. ”Ten years hence, twenty years hence, you will be as beautiful--more so, very likely--than ever. Other men will see you, and I----”

”You will be just what you were and always have been to me,” Katherine interrupted. ”I love you, and shall love.”

She answered bravely, taking his hand again and caressing it, while he looked round and smiled at her. But she grew curiously cold. She s.h.i.+vered, and had a difficulty in controling her speech. Her new companion, Sorrow, refused to be tricked and to leave her, and the breath of sorrow is as sharp as a wind blowing over ice.

”You have made me perfectly content,” Richard Calmady said presently.

”There is nothing I would have changed. No hour of day--or night--ah, my G.o.d! my G.o.d!--which I could ask to have otherwise.” He paused, fighting a sob which rose in his throat. ”Still you are quite young----”

”So much the worse for me,” Katherine said.

”Oh! I don't know about that,” he put in quietly. ”Anyhow, remember that you are free, absolutely and unconditionally free. I hold a man a cur who, in dying, tries to bind the woman he loves.”