第42章 THY HEART'S DESIRE BY NETTA SYRETT(6)

Her features seemed to have sharpened during the last few days, and there were hollows in her cheeks.She had been very ill for a long time, but all at once, with a sudden movement, she turned her head and buried her face in the cushions with a groan.Slipping from her place, she fell on her knees beside the couch, and put both hands before her mouth to force back the cry that she felt struggling to her lips.

For some moments the wild effort she was making for outward calm, which even when she was alone was her first instinct, strained every nerve and blotted out sight and hearing, and it was not till the sound was very near that she was conscious of the ring of horse's hoofs on the plain.

She raised her head sharply, with a thrill of fear, still kneeling, and listened.

There was no mistake.The horseman was riding in hot haste, for the thud of the hoofs followed one another swiftly.

As Mrs.Drayton listened her white face grew whiter, and she began to tremble.Putting out shaking hands, she raised herself by the arms of the folding-chair and stood upright.

Nearer and nearer came the thunder of the approaching sound, mingled with startled exclamations and the noise of trampling feet from the direction of the kitchen tent.

Slowly, mechanically almost, she dragged herself to the entrance, and stood clinging to the canvas there.By the time she had reached it Broomhurst had flung himself from the saddle, and had thrown the reins to one of the men.

Mrs.Drayton stared at him with wide, bright eyes as he hastened toward her.

"I thought you--you are not--" she began, and then her teeth began to chatter."I am so cold!" she said, in a little, weak voice.

Broomhurst took her hand and led her over the threshold back into the tent.

"Don't be so frightened," he implored; "I came to tell you first.I thought it wouldn't frighten you so much as--Your--Drayton is--very ill.They are bringing him.I--"He paused.She gazed at him a moment with parted lips; then she broke into a horrible, discordant laugh, and stood clinging to the back of a chair.

Broomhurst started back.

"Do you understand what I mean?" he whispered."Kathleen, for God's sake--/don't/--he is /dead/."He looked over his shoulder as he spoke, her shrill laughter ringing in his ears.The white glare and dazzle of the plain stretched before him, framed by the entrance to the tent; far off, against the horizon, there were moving black specks, which he knew to be the returning servants with their still burden.

They were bringing John Drayton home.

One afternoon, some months later, Broomhurst climbed the steep lane leading to the cliffs of a little English village by the sea.He had already been to the inn, and had been shown by the proprietress the house where Mrs.Drayton lodged.

"The lady was out, but the gentleman would likely find her if he went to the cliffs--down by the bay, or thereabouts," her landlady explained; and, obeying her directions, Broomhurst presently emerged from the shady woodland path on to the hillside overhanging the sea.

He glanced eagerly round him, and then, with a sudden quickening of the heart, walked on over the springy heather to where she sat.She turned when the rustling his footsteps made through the bracken was near enough to arrest her attention, and looked up at him as he came.Then she rose slowly and stood waiting for him.He came up to her without a word, and seized both her hands, devouring her face with his eyes.Something he saw there repelled him.Slowly he let her hands fall, still looking at her silently."You are not glad to see me, and I have counted the hours," he said, at last, in a dull, toneless voice.

Her lips quivered."Don't be angry with me--I can't help it--I'm not glad or sorry for anything now," she answered; and her voice matched his for grayness.

They sat down together on a long flat stone half embedded in a wiry clump of whortleberries.Behind them the lonely hillsides rose, brilliant with yellow bracken and the purple of heather.Before them stretched the wide sea.It was a soft, gray day.Streaks of pale sunlight trembled at moments far out on the water.The tide was rising in the little bay above which they sat, and Broomhurst watched the lazy foam-edged waves slipping over the uncovered rocks toward the shore, then sliding back as though for very weariness they despaired of reaching it.The muffled, pulsing sound of the sea filled the silence.Broomhurst thought suddenly of hot Eastern sunshine, of the whir of insect wings on the still air, and the creaking of a wheel in the distance.He turned and looked at his companion.

"I have come thousands of miles to see you," he said; "aren't you going to speak to me now I am here?""Why did you come? I told you not to come," she answered, falteringly."I--" she paused.

"And I replied that I should follow you--if you remember," he answered, still quietly."I came because I would not listen to what you said then, at that awful time.You didn't know /yourself/ what you said.No wonder! I have given you some months, and now I have come."There was silence between them.Broomhurst saw that she was crying; her tears fell fast on to her hands, that were clasped in her lap.Her face, henoticed, was thin and drawn.

Very gently he put his arm round her shoulder and drew her nearer to him.She made no resistance; it seemed that she did not notice the movement; and his arm dropped at his side.

"You asked me why I had come.You think it possible that three months can change one very thoroughly, then?" he said, in a cold voice.

"I not only think it possible; I have proved it," she replied, wearily.He turned round and faced her.

"You /did/ love me, Kathleen!" he asserted."You never said so in words, but I know it," he added, fiercely.

"Yes, I did."

"And--you mean that you don't now?"