But to-night, as he tramped, he did not think of these things. The sports and pastimes of his boyhood were as far from his mind as was the innocence of his boyhood from his heart. He was trying to tramp out the remembrance of a sin. Trying to obliterate from his memory the face of a woman he did not love, never had loved, never would love—but to whom honour held him fast. A woman who had nursed him in sickness with devotion and care—and who, when he was still physically weak, had flung herself into his arms—at his feet, offering her life, her love, her honour. And he had weakly fought, weakly resisted, and at the last most weakly taken—taken just for the love of pity, and the love of love and all the other loves that Irishmen, above all men, know all about, and that have nothing to do with Love at all.
The bitter cud to chew now between his gritting teeth was that he had never reaped anything but soul-misery and sacrifice of fine resolves from the thing. Yet here it was holding itself up before him like some pure star that he must never cease from following after: a creed never to be forsaken; an idol before which to sacrifice the rest of his life—to sacrifice the most wonderful love that ever thrilled a man's veins and shook from his life all mean and paltry things.
Oh, Lust past and Love present had a great fight in the heart of Evelyn Carson, Bart., D.S.O., C.M.G., in the early hours of that April morning. It must have been close on six hours that he tramped and fought, for when at last he came by devious ways to Sea House, the shroudy dawn was breaking over the face of the Indian Ocean.
And Bramham was in his dining-room insanely drinking whiskies-and-sodas.
"What the——?" Carson stood in the doorway staring.
"Waiting up for you, of course! Where have you been?" said the drunk and dauntless Bramham.
"I can't remember engaging you to wet-nurse me." Carson was too savage with life to be polite even to the best friend he had ever possessed. He strode into the room, threw his soft hat rolled into a ball into a corner, and would have passed through, but Bramham detained him with a word.
"Miss Chard's house was burnt to the ground last night!"
Carson came back and stood by the table. It seemed to him that a good thing to do would be to mix a strong whiskey-and-soda, and he did so, and drank it thirstily.
"What was that you said, Bram?" he asked, later.