“Watkins, you know—poor Watkins—a great loss to me! But à la guerre comme à la guerre! I bear no malice for a fair act of war. I am anxious to show you every consideration.” He spoke to Dr. Traherne, but he included Mrs. Crespin by a deferential gesture, and his tone was for her.
“Then,” Traherne said quickly and earnestly, “you will leave us alone for the time that remains to us?”
“Why, by all means,” Rukh returned as quickly. “And oh, by the way, you need have no fear of the—ceremony—being protracted. It will be brief and—I trust—painless. The High Church Party are not incapable of cruelty; but I have resolutely set my face against it.”
He paused a moment, irresolute, debating with himself. Then he quietly stepped close to Lucilla Crespin. She had stood gazing stonily into space while he and Traherne had been speaking, and she stood so still, took no notice of him as he came to her, none when he spoke to her.
“Before I go, Madam,” he said, “may I remind you of my offer of yesterday? It is not too late.” She took no notice. “Is it just to your children to refuse?” he urged. Traherne saw her hands tremble, and she looked in Rukh’s eyes, meeting them with a look of stone. But she did not speak, and her fixed and rigid face gave no sign—only her hard, cold eyes looked his through.
Rukh looked back into hers, and waited.
Still she gave no sign.
“Immovable?” he said at last. “So be it!” And he turned to go. But a great yell of triumphant hatred weltered up from the waiting people outside—such clamor and frenzy as they had not uttered yet—and the Raja turned back, and spoke to her once more.
“Your husband’s body, Madam,” he told her, watching her narrowly. “They are laying it at the feet of the Goddess.”
He had moved the Englishwoman at last.