"Oh, Belle! You are glad, you are glad that I have come back!"
The wonder and joy of his voice seemed to rouse her to realities; she drew away from him, and stood with one hand raised to her forehead in perplexity. "How dark it is!" she cried, petulantly. "I did not see. I cannot,--Why did you come like a thief in the night? Why did you not write? Why?--you should not have come, you should not!"
"I did write," he answered gently, the blame in her tone seeming to escape his ear. "I wrote from Kohât to tell you. The dog-cart was at the station and I thought--"
"It was for John, not for you," she interrupted almost fiercely. "It was for my husband--" She broke off into silence.
"Yes; I heard at Kohât you were married."
He could not see her face, nor she his, and once more her voice was petulant in complaint. "You startled me. No one could have seen in the dark."
"Shall I call for lights now?"
"If you please."
When he returned, followed by a servant bringing the lamp, she was standing where he had left her. Great Heavens, how she had changed! Was this little Belle Stuart with her beautiful grey eyes? This woman with the nameless look of motherhood, the nameless dignity of knowledge in her face; and yet with a terror, such as the tyranny of truth brings with it, in the tired eyes which used to be so clear of care.
"I am sorry," he began; then his thought overflowed conventional speech, making him exclaim--"Don't look so scared, for pity's sake!"