At once life lost its sullen taste; and was sharp with the savour of brine. Something to do—and that not too easy. Something to be won—and that not for herself, but for Richard. Something to sacrifice—and that was contemplation of the future; fatal to brood upon a future inhabited principally by Phillipses. Something here which demanded subtle manipulation, probably histrionics ... but this was Deb’s talent. She set out to re-conquer Samson Phillips in a spirit which was brewed in equal parts of roguery and swagger and trepidation. Could she or could she not obliterate her senseless fib of last autumn? It all depended, really, on how much Samson cared for her, and of what enduring fibre was his passion. And here Deb had confidence; she could not forget that he had asked her to marry him—so few men had asked her that, down all that long, dusty highway speckled with men....
“If it can be wangled, it shall be wangled,” she promised Richard in her heart. She was not very considerate of Samson in the matter; but you cannot be too scrupulous of one man when you wish supremely to serve another.
From Nell Redbury she obtained Captain Phillips’ temporary address, and also the exact ailment from which he was suffering. It would not do to make a mistake in that. Then she composed a letter that in its simple idiocy and clear grasp of Samson’s psychology, was quite a little masterpiece of guile:
“Dear Captain Phillips,
“I hear that you are back again and in hospital, with trench-feet. I’m so very sorry. Though I’m afraid you won’t care much if I’m sorry or not. And yet—this letter is really to ask if you’ll let me come and see you, just once? Of course, I know it’s my fault that we’re not good friends. But please, please don’t snub me. It does hurt so to be snubbed. Is there anything special you would like me to bring you, in case you say I may come? Flowers I know you love best, but flowers are nicest when they are wild in the fields, aren’t they? I wish you could have seen our little brook near Market St Bryan last month; its banks were a blue heaven of forget-me-nots. Do you ever think about it, I wonder?
“Yours very sincerely,
“Deb Marcus.”
She re-read this epistle, and crossed out the last sentence. “It won’t do to frighten him; I wish I could work in a little old-world touch of dignity.” She mused; then unable to supply this, sent it off as it was.
She had not miscalculated the durance of Samson’s affection. He was a stubborn man, and he had deliberately selected Deb. Deb had dealt his sense of righteousness a hard buffet; but he had not succeeded in forgetting her. Her letter struck exactly the right note—diffident yet impetuous; just the same dear, warm-hearted, half-shy, half-wild little girl ... surely she must have been led astray by some scoundrel. After all, she had been honest at the time; honest enough to forfeit his regard and all it entailed, by that confession of her sin. The sin could not be minimized—but here she was, obviously penitent—he could not resist the delicious act of magnanimity.
So he replied stiffly, saying he would be delighted if she were to pay him a visit at the hospital between three and four on the following Wednesday. He had made arrangements with his sister-in-law, Nell Redbury, to be present....