Whilst she was with him he saw behind her the dark shadow of Breton, that fellow kicked out of the country for cheating at cards or something as bad, disowned by his family, and she, she, Rachel so proudly apart, could have gone to him—He was glad when, at last, she had left him.
Then, lying there, he endured three of the most awful hours of agony that he was ever, in, all his life, to know. Nothing that had come to him through his accident was so bad as this. At one moment it was fury—wild, raging, unreasoning fury—that wished that Rachel and Breton and the Duchess, all of them together might suffer the torments of hell—And then swiftly following it came his love of Rachel, nearer now to burning heights, so that he swore that, whatever she had done, he did not care, he would forgive her everything, but all that mattered was that she should be spared, that her honour should be vindicated. Then, more quietly, he reflected that he was uncertain of everything as yet, he had only that malicious old woman's word, and until he had something more solid than that he must trust Rachel.
Oh! if only she would, of her own accord, speak! If she would only sit there by his sofa and, with her hand in his, tell him, quite simply, in what exactly her friendship with Breton consisted—Ah! then how he would forgive her! How together they would be revenged upon the Duchess!
If she did not speak he did not know what he would do. That old woman's mouth must be stopped; he must find out exactly how far the danger had spread—he must deal with Breton—Now indeed he cursed so that he should be tied to this sofa; there had swept down upon him the hardest trial of his life.
Rachel returned from her party—she sat by his sofa and he lay there looking at her.
Had it been a nice party? Not very—One of those war parties that everyone had now. That silly Lady Meikleham recited "The Absent-minded Beggar," and they had that French tenor from Covent Garden to sing patriotic songs, and of course they got money out of everybody.
There'd been nothing for supper—She'd seen nobody amusing—
She broke out: "Roddy dear, what have you been doing with yourself? You look as white and tired as anything—Has that pain in your back——?"
"No, dear,—thank you."
"I wish I hadn't gone, and the dinner at Lady Massiter's was so stupid—Monty Carfax whom I loathe and Lord Massiter so dull and stupid—says he's coming to see you to-morrow afternoon."