These last remarks were made in a servile tone, and for the benefit of an under-gardener who was seen approaching.
Rowton nodded. Scrivener turned on his heel and disappeared.
“Come here,” said Rowton to the gardener. He walked with him across the lawn, gave him some directions with regard to the moving of several plants, and then sauntered slowly into the house.
He went into the library, where he hoped to find Nance. She was there; she had seated herself in a chair in front of a great fire; a book lay open on her lap, but she was not reading; with the tears undried on her cheeks, she was fast asleep. She looked weary, almost ethereal, in her sleep. Rowton looked at her fair face with a great pang at his heart.
“Poor lily flower,” he murmured; “she looks as unfit as girl could look to stand the storms of this troublesome world, and what storms she may have to encounter with her lot linked to mine, Heaven only knows. But there, perhaps I wrong her, there is, I sometimes think, muscle as well as weakness under all that delicate womanly charm. Poor little girl! shall I go away without telling her, or shall I tell her? No, I won’t shirk the nasty things which I undertook when I married one like her—she must bear her burden—Heaven knows I want to make it light to her. Yes, I’ll tell her.”
He went up to Nancy, knelt by her side, put his arms round her, and gently transferred her head from the sofa cushions to his breast. The movement, light as it was, awakened her. She opened her eyes, saw him looking down at her, and smiled at first dreamily and happily.
“Where am I?” she asked. “I thought I was back at San Remo—I remember now, I am at home, and you are with me.”
“I am glad you have had a sleep, Nance,” said her husband in a matter-of-fact voice. “Now I have something to say which is not quite pleasant.”
“What is that?” she asked.
She started up and pushed her hair from her brow.