"No; I will go back to South Africa by the next boat. My brother will think me mad, but he'll be glad all the same. He always hated my nursing schemes. And there's something I want to say now, Hector, before I leave you." She paused and then went on hurriedly: "When—when it's over, definitely broken off, I mean—and, oh, for my sake, dear, try to get her to divorce you—you may come out to me then."
"Why do you say for your sake, Stara, isn't it for both our sakes?"
"Because—because—oh, I won't tell you now, but perhaps you'll find that I'm not quite the weak creature you think, and if you make this sacrifice for me I too may ... make a return. And, Hector, one thing more. Till then I don't want to see you again, to me it would seem like—like an intrigue. When you come you must be free. And so, when we land to-morrow, don't look for me, you won't find me if you do."
"How am I to give you that cheque, then?"
"Send it by a steward, if you must; and when it's all over, wire to me the one word "Coming." I shall understand and be waiting. Good-bye."
CHAPTER XV
The north wind blew keen and lusty over the Norfolk marshland, bending the lush grass and sedge and ruffling the surface of dyke and pool. Overhead there was a sky of pale blue dappled with white and grey, from which shone forth the yellow ball of a December sun.
Tossed in the wind, flocks of screaming plover and white kittiwake flew aimlessly over the green flat; the plaintive cry of a lonely curlew rang eerily as he scudded swiftly along the foreshore. Now and again a sturdy mallard could be seen stoutly battling his way against the wind towards some rush-covered sanctuary, quacking triumphantly as he hung for a moment over it, and then, dropping, was lost to view. Away to the east a low, ragged line of sandhills broke the green monotony, beyond which lay a foam-flecked jade-coloured sea, streaked and mottled with ever-shifting shadows of purple and ultramarine.
Some two miles inland the square, white shape of a house could be seen nestling in a clump of trees, an unpretentious-looking place, despite its appellation of Hall—Cuddingfold Hall, to give it its full title—but solidly built and comfortable, nevertheless. This was the home of which Lucy had written to her husband, and here for the last four months she had been installed, living now in one room, now in another, for painters, paperers and their kind had been plying their respective trades, and life had been full of discomforts.
Their work had been at last completed, and even to Lucy's exacting mind Cuddingfold Hall had been transformed from a ramshackle human warren into an almost perfect dwelling-place. In spite of the somewhat extensive improvements carried out, it was only for twelve months she had rented the Hall, but she had the option of taking it on at the end of that time for seven, twenty-one, or ninety-nine years, if she wished.