"Oh, Mr. Herrick,"--Toni, her eyes full of tears, spoke impetuously--"how terrible for you--for you both! Did you go to her and try to comfort her?"

He was silent for a long moment. Then--

"That was the worst of all." His voice was grim. "When once she realised that she was helpless, that she was to be kept in prison, against her will, for eighteen long months, all her love for me turned to hate. By a queer, perverted instinct she blamed me for everything that had happened. She persisted in a.s.serting that I could have saved her if I would. It was quite useless for me to say anything. I was allowed to see her once more--with my solicitor--and she heaped reproaches on my head till my blood ran cold. She called me a scoundrel, a coward, because I hadn't succeeded in shifting the blame to my own shoulders. She raged against her fate, swore she wouldn't obey the rules, would starve herself to death--and taunted me with the fact, that while she was suffering, starving, in a prison cell, I should be warm and well-fed at home. She screamed out that she hated me, wished me dead--and my last glimpse of her was as she disappeared, her face distorted with pa.s.sion till all the soft childish beauty had vanished."

"And she is there now?"

"In prison? Yes."

"But--is the time nearly over?"

"Yes. Four weeks to-day Eva will be set free." He stared out of the window with unseeing eyes. "And then will come the question--what are we to do?"

"To do?" She did not understand.

"Yes. You know, she will never forgive me. In her childish, unreasonable way, she persists in thinking everything that happened was my fault. If I had given her more money, she would not have got into debt. If I hadn't gone to Wales and left her alone she would never have done the thing; and if I had only lied better, the blame would have been mine--and the punishment."

"But it was she who was guilty----"

"I know--but if I could have gone to prison in her stead, G.o.d knows I'd have gone--willingly. Things are so different for men. When I think of her, the little, soft, fragile thing I married, shut up alone in a cell, wearing prison garments, eating rough prison food, being ordered about by harsh, domineering women, why, I almost curse myself that I am free to walk about under G.o.d's blue sky!"

"Shall you go back to London--when she is free?"

"I don't know--I don't know," he said rather drearily. "I let the house at once--gave it up at the next quarter, and our things are stored. I wanted to get away from it all, so I came down here and took the bungalow, but of course it won't suit Eva."

"Couldn't you--change your name?"

"That's done already," he said. "Just after the trial an uncle obligingly died and left me nine thousand pounds on the understanding I should take his name; so I did, of course, and turned myself from James Vyse into James Herrick."

"Then no one will know?"

"No. But this life, this vagabond river life that both you and I love, wouldn't suit Eva very long. No, I'm afraid we shall have to seek some 'city of bricks and mortar'--but even my wife won't be keen on London, and it's the only city one can live in properly."

While he talked, the rain had ceased; and he rose as he spoke the last words.

"Well, Mrs. Rose, I've showed you the skeleton in my cupboard--and he's a pretty grisly object, isn't he? But I don't want to depress you with a recital of my woes. After all, life's sweet, sister--and you and I, thanks be to G.o.d, have the soul of the gipsy within us, which is made quite happy, poor f.e.c.kless thing, by the sight of the sun or the music of the breeze!"

Her eyes kindled with sudden comprehension.

"Yes--and you've shown me what a fool I am to think myself unhappy!" She too sprang up, and her body was full of vigour and youth again. "I won't give in, Mr. Herrick! You've not given in, and you've heaps more cause than I have. After all, I'm young and I love nature and--and my husband--and I _have_ a soul--you told me so! And in time Owen will be satisfied with me, won't he?"

"Of course he will!" In his heart Herrick thought the man who was dissatisfied with this eager, enthusiastic, courageous youth must be hard indeed to please.

"I've read nearly all those books," she said proudly, "and I can read French ever so much better now. And I won't care for Miss Loder's cold stares and her amused little laugh when I do something silly. And if I go on trying, I shall soon be a fit companion for Owen, shan't I, Mr.

Herrick?"

"Dear little child," he said, laying his hand on her shoulder, "don't try too hard! Read your books, study languages, take an interest in the vital questions of the day--but don't lose your tenderness, your sympathy, your freshness of heart. Grow up if you will, but don't grow too fast! And in cultivating your soul, don't forget that a woman's heart is her sweetest, rarest treasure after all!"

He released her gently.

"There! My sermon's over--and so, apparently, is the rain. And that blithe footstep I hear outside surely heralds the approach of Mrs.

Spencer!"

He was right. After a loud knock the door opened briskly to disclose Mrs. Spencer bearing a lighted lamp; and Herrick went forward to relieve her of her burden.

"Enter the Lady with the Lamp!" quoth he, smiling. "Well, Mrs. Spencer, the rain's over and gone, and it's time we went too, eh, Mrs. Rose?"

"I suppose so." She took up the coat she had thrown aside. "Has the chauffeur had some tea, Mrs. Spencer?"

"Lor yes, ma'am, and enjoyed it too," responded the landlady, beaming.

"A rare good trencherman he be an' all! I'd sooner meat him for a week nor a fortnight, as they say in our parts."

"Meet him?" Even Herrick did not recognise the idiom.

"Yes, sir--board him, give him his meat," explained Mrs. Spencer volubly. "But I can't say as much for you and the young lady, sir."

She looked regretfully at the still loaded plates.

"We've had a lovely tea, Mrs. Spencer," said Toni, her heart very warm towards this comely woman who had known her father. "I shall come and see you again some day. May I?"

Mrs. Spencer immediately invited her to come as often as she liked; and then covered both Toni and Herrick with confusion by refusing to take a penny for their tea.

"What--me take money from Roger Gibbs' la.s.s?" she said, her manner filled with the mingled independence and respect of the best type of countrywoman. "Not I, sir. We Yorkshire folks don't grudge a cup o' tea and a bit of fatty cake to them as is like ourselves, exiles in a strange land. Besides, it's been a rare treat to see the young lady. To think that Roger Gibbs' lile la.s.s should come drivin' up in one of they great mutter-cars, too!"

"Yes, and it's really time she drove away in it," responded Herrick pleasantly. "I think I hear Fletcher bringing it round."

There was a tentative hoot from Fletcher's horn at that moment; and after a grateful farewell, and a vain attempt to pay, at least, for Fletcher's tea, Herrick took Toni out and installed her in the car.

He refused her invitation to drive home with her, alleging that his health required exercise; and though Toni might have been forgiven for thinking fifteen miles' ride over a wet and muddy road, under a still cloudy sky, rather a strenuous form of exercise, some newly acquired intuition told her he really wished to be alone.

She said good-bye, therefore, without attempting to press the matter; and a moment later the car glided away, its lamps gleaming in the rural blackness of the village street.

As he rode home, his tyres splashing through puddles, and spattering him with mud, Herrick's face was very tired and worn, but in his eyes there lurked a little faint light of happiness that he had helped another weary soul a few steps forward on its pilgrimage over a th.o.r.n.y road.

"Poor little soul!" He smiled as he recognized the form his sympathy took. "After all she's right--she has a soul--and even though it brings her suffering and tears, it's worth the price. And yet--I wonder if it would have been kinder to leave her alone--not to encourage that hope of hers to make herself more intellectually worthy of her husband? I didn't make much success of waking _my_ Undine's soul to life! All I got was her hatred--and from the beginning she lied to me!"

Luckily at that moment his lamp blew out, viciously; and with a muttered execration of the creatures he called Boo-Boos, he dismounted and relighted the flame, whose vagaries throughout the rest of the long ride kept him so fully occupied that he had neither time nor inclination to meditate on such abstractions as souls.

CHAPTER XVIII

By the end of September, Owen's book was finished; and on a beautiful autumn morning he and Toni set off in the car on a journey to town, where a publisher, who was also a personal friend, was waiting to receive the ma.n.u.script.

Mr. Anson was a kindly, energetic man of middle age; and he had secretly long expected Owen to turn novelist; so that he accepted the bulky ma.n.u.script with a real curiosity as to its value.

He promised to let the author know his decision at an early date; and then invited Owen and his wife to lunch with him at the Carlton, an invitation which Owen accepted at once, rather to Toni's dismay.