There, motionless in the full glare--watching him, waiting for him--stood his wife!

CHAPTER XLVI

THE HEART OF A MAN

She did not utter a single word or move to greet him. Even in that ruddy light she was white to the lips. Her hands were fast gripped together. She did not seem to breathe.

So for full thirty seconds they faced one another, speechless, spell-bound, while through the awful silence the cry of a jackal sounded from afar, seeking its meat from G.o.d.

Will was the first to move, feeling for his handkerchief mechanically and wiping his forehead. Also he tried to speak aloud, but his voice was gone. "Pull yourself together, you fool!" he whispered savagely.

"She'll be gone again directly."

She caught the words apparently, for her att.i.tude changed. She parted her straining hands as though by great effort, and moved towards him.

Out of the glare of the lamplight she looked more normal. She wore a grey travelling-dress, but her hat was off. He fancied he saw the sparkle of the starlight in her hair.

She came towards him a few steps, and then she stopped. "Will," she said, and her voice had a piteous tremble in it, "won't you speak to me? Don't you--don't you know me?"

Her voice awoke him, brought him down from the soaring heights of imagination as it were with a thud. He strode forward and caught her hands in his.

"Good heavens, Daisy!" he said. "I thought I was dreaming! How on earth--"

And there he stopped dead, checked in mid career, for she was leaning back from him, leaning back with all her strength that he might not kiss her.

He stood, still holding her hands, and looked at her. There was a curious, choked sensation at his throat, as if he had swallowed ashes.

She had come back to him--she had come back to him indeed, but he had a feeling that she was somehow beyond his reach, further away from him in that moment of incredible reunion than she had ever been during all the weary months of their separation. This woman with the pale face and tragic eyes was a total stranger to him. Small wonder that he had thought himself to be dreaming!

With a furious effort he collected himself. He let her hands slip from his. "Come in here," he said, forcing his dry throat to speech by sheer strength of will. "You should have let me know."

She went in without a word, and came to a stand before the table that was littered with his work. She was agitated, he saw. Her hand was pressed against her heart, and she seemed to breathe with difficulty.

Instinctively he came to her aid with commonplace phrases--the first that occurred to him. "How did you come? But no matter! Tell me presently. You must have something to eat. You look dead beat. Sit down, won't--"

And there he stopped again, breaking off short to stare at her. In the lighted room she had turned to face him, and he saw that her hair was no longer golden but silvery white.

Seeing his look, she began to speak in hurried, uneven sentences. "I have been ill, you know. It--it was brain fever, Jim said. Hair--fair hair particularly--does go like that sometimes."

"You are well again?" he questioned.

"Oh, quite--quite." There was something almost feverish in the a.s.sertion; she was facing him with desperate resolution. "I have been well for a long time. Please don't send for anything. I dined at the dak-bungalow an hour ago. I--I thought it best."

Her agitation was increasing. She panted between each sentence. Will turned aside, shut and bolted the window, and drew the blind. Then he went close to her; he laid a steady hand upon her.

"Sit down," he said, "and tell me what is the matter."

She sank down mutely. Her mouth was quivering; she sought to hide it from him with her hand.

"Tell me," he said again, and quietly though he spoke there was in his tone a certain mastery that had never a.s.serted itself in the old days; "What is it? Why have you come to me like this?"

"I--haven't come to stay, Will," she said, her voice so low that it was barely audible.

His face changed. He looked suddenly dogged. "After twenty months!" he said.

She bent her head. "I know. It's half a lifetime--more. You have learnt to do without me by this. At least--I hope you have--for your own sake."

He made no comment on the words; perhaps he did not hear them. After a brief silence she heard his voice above her bowed head. "Something is wrong. You'll tell me presently, won't you? But--really you needn't be afraid."

Something in the words--was it a hint of tenderness?--renewed her failing strength. She commanded herself and raised her head. She scarcely recognised in the steady, square-chinned man before her the impulsive, round-faced boy she had left. There was something unfathomable about him, a hint of greatness that affected her strangely.

"Yes," she said. "Something is wrong. It is what I am here for--what I have come to tell you. And when it is over, I'm going away--I'm going away--out of your life--for ever, this time."

His jaw hardened, but he said nothing whatever. He stood waiting for her to continue.

She rose slowly to her feet though she was scarcely capable of standing. She had come to the last ounce of her strength, but she spent it bravely.

"Will," she said, and though her voice shook uncontrollably every word was clear, "I hardly know how to say it. You have always trusted me, always been true to me. I think--once--you almost worshipped me. But you'll never worship me any more, because--because--I am unworthy of you. Do you understand? I was held back from the final wickedness, or--or I shouldn't be here now. But the sin was there in my heart.

Heaven help me, it is there still. There! I have told you. It--was your right. I don't ask for mercy or forgiveness. Only punish me--punish me--and then--let me--go!"

Voice and strength failed together. Her limbs doubled under her, and she sank suddenly down at his feet, sobbing--terrible, painful, tearless sobs that seemed to rend her very being.

Without a word he stooped and lifted her. He was white to the lips, but there was no hesitancy about him. He acted instantly and decidedly as a man quite sure of himself.

He carried her to the old _charpoy_ by the window and laid her down.

Many minutes later, when her anguish had a little spent itself, she realised that he was kneeling beside her, holding her pressed against his heart. Through all the bitter chaos of her misery and her shame there came to her the touch of his hand upon her head.

It amazed her--it thrilled her, that touch of his; in a fashion it awed her. She kept her face hidden from him; she could not look up.

But he did not seek to see her face. He only kept his hand upon her throbbing temple till she grew still against his breast.

Then at length, his voice slow and deep and very steady, he spoke.

"Daisy, we will never speak of this again."

She gave a great start. Pity, even a certain measure of kindness, she had almost begun to expect; but not this--not this! She made a movement to draw herself away from him, but he would not suffer it. He only held her closer.

"Oh, don't, Will, don't!" she implored him brokenly. "For your own sake--let me go!"

"For my own sake, Daisy," he answered quietly,--"and for yours, since you have come to me, I will never let you go again."

"But you can't want me," she insisted piteously. "Don't be generous, Will. I can't bear it. Anything but that! I would rather you cursed me--indeed--indeed!"

His hand restrained her, silenced her. "Hush!" he said. "You are my wife. I love you, and I want you."

Tears came to her then with a rush, blinding, burning, overwhelming, and yet their very agony was relief to her. She made no further effort to loosen his hold. She even feebly clung to him as one needing support.

"Ah, but I must tell you--I must tell you," she whispered at last.