“Oh, Lu, Lu,” he begged, “if you would treat me like a human being—if you would help me, and make life tolerable for me, instead of a thing that won’t bear looking at except through the haze of drink—we might retrieve the early days. God knows I never cared two pins for any woman but you——”
It was the acutest moment of Antony Crespin’s life. And his wife turned him down.
“No,” she said, “the others, I suppose, only helped you, like whiskey, to see the world through a haze. I saw the world through a haze when I married you; but you have dispelled it once for all.” She saw his face blanch, she saw his fingers knot, she saw his shoulders sag; but she went on. “Don’t force me to tell you how impossible it is for me to be your wife again. I am the mother of your children—that gives you a terrible hold over me. Be content with that.”
CHAPTER XVII
“Oh, Mrs. Crespin,” Traherne called before they saw him clambering down from the rocks where the ruined bus lay. “I’ve found,” he called as he came in sight, “in the wreck the newspaper you spoke of—you were right about Rukh.”
Major Crespin pulled himself up roundly, he was not of the breed to show his hurt to the other man. “What does it say?” he asked briskly, as Traherne came up to them with the paper in his hand.
Traherne unfolded it, found the place, and read, “‘Abdulabad, Tuesday. Sentence of death has been passed on the three men found guilty of the murder of Mr. Haredale. It appears that these miscreants are natives of Rukh, a small and little-known independent state among the northern spurs of the Himalayas.’”
“Yes,” Lucilla nodded, “that’s what I read.”
“This news isn’t the best possible passport for us in our present situation,” Traherne said gravely, and his face was graver than his words.
“But,” Mrs. Crespin protested reassuringly, “if we’re hundreds of miles from anywhere, it can’t be known here yet.”