“That is no news,” she said wearily. “You discovered that long ago.”
He looked out of the door across the warm fields again; he lifted his eyes to that mountain road; he looked down at her. “I haven’t any hope left now, Alice. Let’s be plain with each other. We’ve always been plain, but let us be plainer still. There are those rice fields out there, that banana plantation, and the sugar-cane stretching back as far as the valley goes—it’s all mine, all mine. I worked hard for it. I had only one wish with it all, one hope through it all, and it was, that when I brought you here as my wife, you would come to love me—some time. Well, I’ve waited, and waited. It hasn’t come. We’re as far apart to-day as we were the day I married you. Farther, for I had hope then, but I’ve no hope now, none at all.”
They both turned towards the intemperate sunlight and the great hill. The hollowness of life as they lived it came home to them with an aching force. Yet she lifted her fan from the table and fanned herself gently with it, and he mechanically lit a cigar. Servants passed in and out removing the things from the table. Presently they were left alone. The heavy breath of the palm trees floated in upon them; the fruit of the passion-flower hung temptingly at the window; they could hear the sound of a torrent just behind the house. The day was droning luxuriously, yet the eyes of both, as by some weird influence, were fastened upon the hill; and presently they saw, at the highest point where the road was visible, a horseman. He came slowly down until he reached the spot where the road was barricaded from the platform of the cliff. Here he paused. He sat long, looking, as it appeared, down into the valley. The husband rose and took down a field-glass from a shelf; he levelled it at the figure.
“Strange, strange,” he said to himself; “he seems familiar, and yet—”
She rose and reached out her hand for the glass. He gave it to her. She raised it to her eyes, but, at that moment, the horseman swerved into the road again, and was lost to view. Suddenly Houghton started; an enigmatical smile passed across his face.
“Alice,” said he, “did you mean what you said about the steeplechase—I mean about the ride down the White Bluff road?”
“I meant all I said,” was her bitter reply.
“You think life is a mistake?” he rejoined.
“I think we have made a mistake,” was her answer; “a deadly mistake, and it lasts all our lives.”
He walked to the door, trained the glass again on the hill, then afterwards turned round, and said: