She put her hands to her face.
‘Don’t!’ she cried. ‘Oh, Abner, don’t! You’re driving me!’
‘Go on!’ he said roughly. ‘I’ll put the light out. Got the matches?’
She saw that he meant it, and blindly went.
Slowly, methodically, Abner locked the kitchen door and put out the light. A moment later he himself went upstairs in the dark. Morgan was still sobbing, mechanically, for the sake of hearing his own voice, and as Abner passed the door he was aware of a soft moaning which told him that Mary was crying too. His heart ached, his body yearned for her; but in his brain George Malpas’s words re-echoed: ‘By God, you’re the only pal I’ve got that I can trust!’ In a day or two George would be home, and then the situation must be faced. He could not be a man and run away from it.
He got into bed. Lying there in the dark, listening to the ceaseless creaking of the boards and joists, he cursed himself for a fool. His body was on fire. He knew that he could not possibly sleep, and guessed that Mary surely was awake. He was a damned, soft fool, and nothing more! Lying there with eyes open, staring at the darkness, it seemed to him that he heard a soft step on the stairs. The latch of his door started. His heart dissolved within him. He leapt out of bed, trembling, tingling in every limb. Mary had been wiser. He knew it. She had come to him for comfort. She was his. In a moment she would be sinking warm into his arms. His scruples vanished like a puff of smoke. He heard himself swallow, heard his breath coming in short grunts. He opened the door to meet her, to take her. The stair was empty and dark. A rat scuttled away in the wainscot. A dank, wintry air possessed the house. He slammed the door to, viciously.
Next morning, before Mary had stirred from her bed, he had set out as usual for the Pentre.
The Twenty-Fourth Chapter
On the same day, at noon, George Malpas paraded before the Governor of Shrewsbury Jail to take his discharge. The interview was short, almost friendly. The prisoner had behaved well throughout his term, the chaplain had reported on him as a young man of superior intelligence, and for these reasons a remission of a quarter of his sentence had been recommended and sanctioned. From the governor’s office he was marched across the rigid quadrangle that he knew and hated to another room where he signed a receipt for the personal belongings that had been taken from him in the Lesswardine police-court and now miraculously reappeared. A warder checked them as each was handed out:—
‘One watch. Silver chain with medal. One packet of letters. One notebook and lead pencil. One steel foot-rule, folding. Four shillings and twopence, silver and copper. One pocket-knife.’ He paused. ‘Is that all?’