“Well, we’ll go on board then. Edward, fetch Olivia’s wraps.”
“No,” Olivia said. “No. Not that. We’re not going, Charles. We’re going home. Oh, this letter is like a fire.”
“Come, Edward,” said Margaret, “we’ll be getting our cloaks.”
“I’ll get Olivia’s things,” Stukeley said.
“Tom,” she cried, “you aren’t going to run away like this, letting them think you guilty? You can’t, Tom. Go back. No. No. I can’t let you. Dear, we must face this. We must go home and face this.”
Margaret was at the door again, hooking the heavy silver cloak-clasp at his throat. He looked at her pitifully, saying nothing. He wished that he could help her, for the sake of her little one; but the letter had struck a jangle in him, and Stukeley had made him lose his temper. He thought that he had gone too far now, that he had shown Stukeley to be guilty. He could not bring himself to speak. He was worn out with the long anxiety of love. He was tired. Stukeley must fight his own battles, tell his own lies, maintain his own deceptions. He was too weary of it all to be sad, even when, after shaking the Governor’s hand and thanking him for his kindness, he turned to Olivia, with his hand outstretched.
“Well, Olivia,” he said.
“Well,” she said. “What d’you want, Charles?”
“Are you going home?” he asked bluntly.
“Of course I’m going home. Do you think that. Do you think I could live longer in that ship, eating, and lying down, and watching the sea, with this being said of me?”