"No, for he has been hurt enough," said Stafford simply. "I shall never be unhappy now, knowing you might have——"
Darby limped into the room, slowly even for him.
"The door was open," he said. "Gheena, I never meant to tie you to me. I knew always it was only for a time to keep Dearest in order. Darby was just your friend, as he always will be, and one who saw how things were all along. It's all over now. No, don't talk."
Perhaps as he limped out he had his reward in that low-voiced "Darby!" as Gheena's whole heart seemed to cry out to happiness.
Mrs. Maloney's house possessed a porch of what she called rusty work. A long-limbed, feeble-hearted rose of the rambler family trailed over it, hauled into order here and there by large pieces of old cloth nailed on by Thomas Maloney, Junior. In this Darby stood alone. The porch faced the land, the scrambling rusty hills towered high above the harbour. The harbour smell of tar and salt water came strongly with the scent of the violets.
Darby leant back against the unstable rusty porch and with the raw pain came comfort.
It was at least over. Day by day he had found it more difficult to bear Gheena's careless ignoring of any thought of love for him. He was Darby, nothing more. Just Darby Dillon, who had always helped her. Would there not be something almost of relief in the cessation of friendly endeavours to isolate the lovers, to place them alone in chilly sitting-rooms, or send them for walks with carefully modest references to be sure to go down the yew walk, or the walk with the laurel hedges? And life behind the hedges just the same as in the open; Gheena unembarrassed, trying to time her quick movements to the cripple's, Gheena ignoring the word "marriage." Then lately, Gheena downcast, moody, with watchful eyes fixed on the sea; Gheena afraid for the man whom she suspected, afraid of his unmasking.
A small white face peered into the porch; little Miss Delorme pushed back an untrammelled length of rose and spoke feelingly of thorns.
She perched on the unstable bench and chattered for a minute eagerly.
Mrs. Weston had disappeared and Ned Murphy had let out that she was a spy and the old Swiss a man with her. "Hadn't they found pipes and tobacco in his room and men's boots and what not, an' he seen to lep to the car like a mountain goat?"