“No, I haven’t forgotten him,” said Charlotte.
“That was a fine fellow. ‘Man Donald’ as our father used to call him, helped me to stalk my first stag. We ranged the woods together days on end. I sometimes think I owe more to that man than to any other human being.”
Again he was silent, but the eyes of his sister never left his face.
“Yes, it was the call of the blood.” He sighed as he passed his handkerchief over his face which was now gray and glistening. “As I say, Rachel and I ought not to have married; we didn’t suit each other. Our marriage was a family arrangement. It had almost ceased to be tolerable long before the end, but we kept our compact as well as we could, for we were determined that other people should not suffer. And then came Rachel’s long illness, and the girl’s wonderful devotion—do you remember how Rachel would rather have her with her than any of the nurses? And then she died, and of course that altered everything.”
Lady Wargrave sat as if carved out of stone, her eyes still upon the bleak face of the invalid. “Is that all?” she said.
“No, it is not. There’s more to tell.”
“Tell it then so that we may have done with it.” Charlotte’s voice quivered.
“Very well, since you insist.” The softness of the tone was surprising, yet to Charlotte it said nothing. “Rachel died and everything, as I say, was altered. ‘Man Donald’s’ daughter became the only woman who ever really meant anything to me. Somehow I felt I couldn’t do without her. And to make an end of a long and tedious story, finally I married her.”
“You married her!” Lady Wargrave sat as if she had swallowed a poker.
“Yes, but before doing so I made a condition. Things were to go on as they were, provided....”