The Odds Part 68

"Have you had a hot drink since your accident?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I told West--I couldn't."

He turned and rang the bell. He must have seen his note tightly grasped in her hand, but he made no comment upon it.

"Sit down again!" he said gently, and, stooping, poked the sinking fire into a blaze.

She obeyed him almost automatically. After a moment he laid down the poker, and drew the chair with her in it close to the fender. Then he picked up the cloak and put it about her shoulders, and finally moved away to the door.

She heard him give an order to a servant, and sat nervously awaiting his return. But he did not come back to her. He went outside and waited in the pa.s.sage.

There ensued an interval of several minutes, and during that time she sat crouched over the fire, holding her cloak about her, and shivering, shivering all over. Then the door which he had left ajar closed quietly, and she knew that he had come back into the room.

She drew herself together, striving desperately to subdue her agitation.

He came to her side and stooped over her. "I want you to drink this," he said.

She glanced up at him swiftly, and as swiftly looked away. "Don't bother about me!" she said. "I--am not worth it."

He pa.s.sed the low words by. "It's only milk with a dash of brandy," he said. "Won't you try it?"

Very reluctantly she took the steaming beverage from him and began to drink.

He remained beside her, and took the cup from her when she had finished.

"Now," he said, "wouldn't it be wise of you to go to bed?"

She made a movement that was almost convulsive. She had his note still clasped in her hand.

After a moment, without lifting her eyes, she spoke. "Percival, why did you--what made you--write this?"

"I owed it to you," he said.

"You--meant it?" she said, with an effort.

"Yes. I meant it." He spoke with complete steadiness.

"But--but--" She struggled with herself for an instant; then, "Oh, I've got to tell you!" she burst forth pa.s.sionately. "I'm--very wicked."

"No," he said quietly, and laid a constraining hand upon her as she sat.

"That is not so."

She contracted at his touch. "You don't know me. I wrote you a note this evening, trying to explain. I told you I meant to leave you. But--I didn't mean you to read it till I was gone. Did you read it?"

"No," he said. "I guessed what you had done."

Desperately she went on. "You've got to know the worst. I was ready to go away with him. We--were such old friends, and I thought--I thought--I knew him." She bowed herself lower under his hand. Her face was hidden.

"I thought he was at least a gentleman. I thought I could trust him.

I--believed in him."

"Ah!" said Field. "And now?"

"Now"--her head was sunk almost to her knees--"I know him--for what--he is." Her voice broke in bitter weeping. "And I had given so much--so much--to save him!" she sobbed.

"I know," Field said. "He wasn't worth the sacrifice." He stood for a moment or two as though in doubt; then knelt suddenly down beside her and drew her to him.

She made as if she would resist him, but finally, as he held her, impulsively she yielded. She sobbed out her agony against his breast. And he soothed her as he might have soothed a child.

But though presently he dried her tears, he did not kiss her. He spoke, but his voice was devoid of all emotion.

"You are blaming the wrong person for all this. It wasn't Wentworth's fault. He has probably been a crook all his life. It wasn't yours. You couldn't be expected to detect it. But"--he paused--"don't you realise now why I am offering you the only reparation in my power?" he said.

She was trembling, but she did not raise her head or attempt to move, though his arms were ready to release her.

"No. I don't," she said.

Very steadily he went on: "You have not wronged me. It was I who did the wrong. I could have made you see his guilt. It would have been infinitely easier than establishing his innocence before the world. But--I have always wanted the unattainable. I knew that you were out of reach, and so I wanted you. Afterwards, very soon afterwards, I found I wanted even more than what I had bargained for. I wanted your friendship. That was what the sapphire stood for. You didn't understand. I had handicapped myself too heavily. So I took what I could get, and missed the rest."

He stopped. She still lay against his breast.

"Why did you want--my friendship?" she whispered.

He made a curious gesture, as if he faced at last the inevitable. When he answered her his voice was very low. He seemed to speak against his will.

"I--loved you."

"Ah!" It was scarcely more than a breath uttering the words. "And you never told me!"

He was silent.

She raised herself at last and faced him. Her hands were on his shoulders. "Percival," she said, and there was a strange light shining in the eyes that he had dried. "Is your love so small, then--as to be not--worth--mentioning?"

For the first time in her memory he avoided her look. "No," he said.

"What then?" Her voice was suddenly very soft and infinitely appealing.

He opened his arms with a gesture of renunciation "It is--beyond words,"

he said.

She leaned nearer. Her hands slipped upwards, clasping his neck.

"It is the greatest thing that has ever come to me," she said, and in her voice there throbbed a new note which he had never heard in it before.

"Do you think--oh, do you think--I would cast--that--away?"

He did not speak in answer. It seemed as if he could not. That which lay between them was indeed beyond words. Only in the silence he took her again into his arms and kissed her on the lips.