“It was an anæmic, civilised dawn, different to the rush of glory we get here. And the tattered derelicts that one met, trying to snatch sleep on the seats, or wandering about and cursing God for having made them another day. That was before I had ever heard of Faloo, but I remember thinking even then that there ought to be a place somewhere for the chaps who have gone under—a refuge for the people for whom civilisation has been too much.”
“I want you to know,” said Hilda, “that I’ve heard your story. My uncle told me. I made him.”
“My very disreputable story,” said Pryce, grimly. “Well, it’s better not to sail under false colours, isn’t it?”
Her hand stole out and pressed his arm gently. “You must come back to England with us,” she said, speaking quickly. “It’s too horrible that you should have been wronged like this—punished and tortured and maligned for an act of mercy. That’s a thing that must be put right. These blind fools must be made to see. Oh, when I think about it, there are people that I could kill.”
“You’re splendid, Hilda. But it can’t be. One must take the world as one finds it. If doctors who gave false death-certificates were not severely punished, that would open the door—‘open the door’ is the recognised phrase, I think—to all manner of crime. You see it has to be. And though you might make a few kind people forgive what I did wrongly, you could never make the world forgive me for having been in prison. I should never get back to where I was. But it doesn’t matter much, you know. Somewhere in these islands I shall find my place. And if I’m ever inclined to feel sore about it I can always remember that I’ve met you, and what you thought and said, bless you!”
“You won’t come back to England?”
“Can’t, Hilda.”
She sat up now. She plucked a leaf, and pressed its cool surface to her warm lips, and flung it aside. Then she looked steadily into his eyes and spoke deliberately.
“Then I too ... am not going back.”
“What are you saying, Hilda?”