‘Perhaps I shall find him in the study,’ Laura said to herself. ‘It is kettledrum time.’
She laughed softly to herself. How new, how strange it would be to sit down tête à tête at the oval tea-table, man and wife, settled in domesticity for life, no further doubt of each other or of their fate possible to either—the bargain made, the bond sealed, the pledge given, that could be broken only by death.
She went slowly through the silence of the house to the room at the end of the corridor, the little book-room opening into the flower garden. She opened the door softly, meaning to steal in and surprise her husband in some pleasant reverie, but on the threshold she stopped appalled, struck dumb.
He was sitting in an attitude of deepest dejection, his forehead resting on his folded arms, his face hidden. Sobs, such as but seldom come from the agonized heart of a strong man, were tearing the heart of John Treverton. He had given himself up, body and soul, to the passion of an unconquerable despair.
Laura ran to him, bent over him, drew her arm gently round his neck.
‘Dearest, what is amiss?’ she asked, tenderly, with trembling lips. ‘Such grief, and on such a day as this! Something dreadful must have happened. Oh, tell me, love, tell me!’
‘I can tell you nothing,’ he answered, hoarsely, putting her arm away as he spoke. ‘Leave me, Laura. If you pity me, leave me to fight my battle alone. It is the only kindness you can show me.’
‘Leave you, and in such grief as this! No, John, I have a right to share your sorrow. I will not go till you have confided in me. Trust me, love, trust me. Whom can you trust if not your wife?’
‘You don’t know,’ he gasped, almost angrily. ‘There are griefs you cannot share—a depth of torture you can never fathom. God forbid that your pure young soul should ever descend into that black gulf. Laura, if you love, if you pity me—and indeed, dear love, I need all your pity—leave me now for a little while; leave me to finish my struggle alone. It is a struggle, Laura, the fiercest this weak soul of mine has ever passed through. Come back in an hour, dear, and then—you will know—I can explain some part, at least, of this mystery. In an hour, in an hour,’ he repeated, with increasing agitation, pointing with a wavering hand to the door.
Laura stood for a moment or so, irresolute, deeply moved, her womanly dignity, her pride as a wife, hurt to the quick. Then, with a smile, half sad, half bitter, she softly quoted the gentle speech of Shakespeare’s gentlest heroine:—