Part 18 (1/2)

Arthur looked at him. His eyes had a different expression now--or was it that something was gleaming softly in them that had not been there before?

”No, no--I am not going to be false to my colours. I--I don't care to talk much about it, but--I am a Christian, Phil.”

”At least I can put that horrid idea out of the poor child's head, then,” thought Keir to himself. Though to Arthur he did not reply, save by a bend of his head.

Time pa.s.sed. And in his wings there was healing.

At twenty-four, Daisy Trevannion, though her face bore traces of suffering of no common order, was yet a sweet and serene woman. To some extent she had outlived the strange tragedy of her earlier girlhood.

It had never been explained. The one person who might naturally have been looked to, to throw some light on the mystery, Lingard's sister, Lady West, was, as her brother had stated, completely in the dark. At first she had been disposed to blame Daisy, or her family; and though afterwards convinced that in so doing she was entirely mistaken, she never became in any sense confidential with them on the matter. And after a few months they met no more. For her husband was sent abroad, and detained there on an important diplomatic mission.

Now and then, in the earlier days of her broken engagement, Daisy would ask Philip to ”try to find out if Mary West knows where he is”. And to please her he did so. But all he learnt was--what indeed was all the sister had to tell--that Arthur was off again on his old travels--to the Capricorn Islands or to the moon, it was not clear which.

”He has promised that I shall hear from him once a year--as near my birthday as he can manage. That is all I can tell you,” she said, trying to make light of it.

And whether this promise was kept or no, one thing was certain--Arthur Lingard had entirely disappeared from London society.

At twenty-five, Daisy married Philip. He had always loved her, though he had never allowed her to suspect it; and knowing herself and her history as he did, he was satisfied with the true affection she could give him--satisfied, that is to say, in the hope and belief that his own devotion would kindle ever-increasing response on her side. And his hopes were not disappointed. They were very happy.

Now for the sequel to the story--such sequel, that is to say, as there is to give--a suggestion of explanation rather than any positive _denoument_ of the mystery.

They--Philip and Daisy--had been married for two or three years when one evening it chanced to them to dine at the house of a rather well-known literary man with whom they were but slightly acquainted. They had been invited for a special reason; their hosts were pleasant and genial people who liked to get those about them with interests in common.

And Keir, though his wings were now so happily clipt, still held his position as a traveller who had seen and noted much in his former wanderings.

”We think your husband may enjoy a talk with Sir Abel Maynard, who is with us for a few days,” Mrs. Thorncroft had said in her note.

And Sir Abel, not being of the surly order of lions who refuse to roar when they know that their audience is eager to hear them, made himself most agreeable. He appreciated Mr. Keir's intelligence and sympathy, and was by no means indifferent to Mrs. Keir's beauty, though ”evidently,”

he thought to himself, ”she is not over fond of reminiscences of her husband's travels. Perhaps she is afraid of his taking flight again.”

During dinner the conversation turned, not unnaturally, on a subject just at that moment much to the fore. For it was about the time of the heroic Damien's death.

”No,” said Sir Abel, in answer to some inquiry, ”I never visited his place. But I have seen lepers--to perfection. By-the-by,” he went on suddenly, ”I came across a queer, a very queer, story a while ago. I wonder, Keir, if you can throw any light upon it?”

But at that moment Mrs. Thorncroft gave the magic signal and the women left the room.

By degrees the men came straggling upstairs after them, then a little music followed, but it was not till much later in the evening than was usual with him that Philip made his appearance in the drawing-room, preceded by Sir Abel Maynard. Philip looked tired and rather ”distrait,”

thought Daisy, whose eyes were keen with the quick discernment of perfect affection, and she was not sorry when, before very long, he whispered to her that it was getting late, might they not leave soon?

Nor was she sorry that during the interval before her husband made this suggestion, Sir Abel, who had been devoting himself to her, had avoided all mention of his travels, and had been amusing her with his criticism of a popular novel instead. She could never succeed altogether in banis.h.i.+ng the painful a.s.sociation of Arthur Lingard from allusion to her husband's old wanderings.

Poor Arthur! Where was he now?

”Philip, dear,” she said, slipping her hand into his when they found themselves alone, and with a longish drive before them, in their own little brougham, ”there is something the matter. You have heard something? Tell me what it is.”

Keir hesitated.

”Yes,” he said, ”I suppose it is best to tell you. It is the strange story Sir Abel alluded to before you left the room.”