Part 33 (1/2)

”Brute!” she murmured in an odd, choked tone.

”Sounds so, doesn't it? But I wanted that picture. Afterwards came our terrible journey back to the Coast, when I carried the poor old chap on my back day by day, and stood over him at night potting those black beasts when they crept up too close--for they were on our track all the time. I wouldn't tell you the whole story of those days, Miss Wendermott for it would keep you awake at night; but I've a fancy for telling you this. I'd like you to believe it, for it's gospel truth. I didn't leave him until I felt absolutely and actually certain that he couldn't live an hour. He was pa.s.sing into unconsciousness, and a crowd of those natives were close upon our heels. So I left him and took the picture with me--and I think since then that it has meant almost as much to me as ever it had been to him.”

”That,” she remarked, ”sounds a little far-fetched--not to say impossible.”

”Some day,” he answered boldly, ”I shall speak to you of this again, and I shall try to convince you that it is truth!”

He could not see her face, but he knew very well in some occult manner that she had parted with some at least of her usual composure. As a matter of fact she was nervous and ill-at-ease.

”You have not yet told me,” she said abruptly, ”what you imagine can be this girl's reasons for remaining unknown.”

”I can only guess them,” he said gravely; ”I can only suppose that she is ashamed of her father and declines to meet any one connected with him. It is very wrong and very narrow of her. If I could talk to her for ten minutes and tell her how the poor old chap used to dream about her and kiss her picture, I can't think but she'd be sorry.”

”Try and think,” she said, looking still away from him, ”that she must have another reason. You say that you liked her picture! Try and be generous in your thoughts of her for its sake.”

”I will try,” he answered, ”especially--”

”Yes?”

”Especially--because the picture makes me think--sometimes--of you!”

CHAPTER x.x.xIII

Trent had done many brave things in his life, but he had never been conscious of such a distinct thrill of nervousness as he experienced during those few minutes' silence. Ernestine, for her part, was curiously exercised in her mind. He had shaken her faith in his guilt--he had admitted her to his point of view. She judged herself from his standpoint, and the result was unpleasant. She had a sudden impulse to tell him the truth, to reveal her ident.i.ty, tell him her reasons for concealment. Perhaps her suspicions had been hasty. Then the personal note in his last speech had produced a serious effect on her, and all the time she felt that her silence was emboldening him, as indeed it was.

”The first time I saw you,” he went on, ”the likeness struck me. I felt as though I were meeting some one whom I had known all my life.”

She laughed a little uneasily. ”And you found yourself instead the victim of an interviewer! What a drop from the romantic to the prosaic!”

”There has never been any drop at all,” he answered firmly, ”and you have always seemed to me the same as that picture--something quite precious and apart from my life. It's been a poor sort of thing perhaps.

I came from the people, I never had any education, I was as rough as most men of my sort, and I have done many things which I would sooner cut off my right hand than do again. But that was when I lived in the darkness. It was before you came.”

”Mr. Trent, will you take me back to Lady Tresham, please?”

”In a moment,” he answered gravely. ”Don't think that I am going to be too rash. I know the time hasn't come yet. I am not going to say any more. Only I want you to know this. The whole success of my life is as nothing compared with the hope of one day--”

”I will not hear another word,” she interrupted hastily, and underneath her white veil he could see a scarlet spot of colour in her cheeks; in her speech, too, there was a certain tremulousness. ”If you will not come with me I must find Lady Tresham alone.”

They turned round, but as they neared the middle of the paddock progress became almost impossible. The bell had rung for the princ.i.p.al race of the day and the numbers were going up. The paddock was crowded with others beside loiterers, looking the horses over and stolidly pus.h.i.+ng their way through the little groups to the front rank. From Tattersall's came the roar of clamorous voices. All around were evidences of that excitement which always precedes a great race.

”I think,” he said, ”that we had better watch the race from these railings. Your gown will be spoilt in the crowd if we try to get out of the paddock, and you probably wouldn't get anywhere in time to see it.”

She acquiesced silently, recognising that, although he had not alluded to it in words, he had no intention of saying anything further at present. Trent, who had been looking forward to the next few minutes with all the eagerness of a man who, for the first time in his life, runs the favourite in a great race, smiled as he realised how very content he was to stay where nothing could be seen until the final struggle was over. They took up their places side by side and leaned over the railing.

”Have you much money on Iris?” she asked.

”A thousand both ways,” he answered. ”I don't plunge, but as I backed her very early I got 10 to 1 and 7 to 2. Listen! They're off!”