“He was in the Black Forest when I last heard from him,” she said, “and was going to the Caucasus—to collect plants. That was a long time ago. Three years, I should think. He doesn't write now. He's married, you know.”
“Married?” he repeated, with open eyes. “I never knew that.”
“He married a Mrs. Germain—a widow.”
Chevenix stared, then slapped his leg. “Then that accounts for it! Didn't I tell you I met him when I went out to Brindisi to see Nevile off—met him on a steamer, with a pretty woman? That was Mrs. G.—his pretty woman. Good Lord, how rum!” He laughed, staring. Then, “What on earth did he do that for? She's not his sort. And I gave myself away—confoundedly—to each of 'em in turn. You'll never believe it, but I told him that she'd always been in love with Tristram Duplessis, and then I gave her to understand what had been the matter with old Senhouse.” He exploded, then grew mighty serious. “That's rather a bore. I was counting on him, you know. I thought you might want him.”
Sanchia made no reply. About the corners of her mouth there lurked the hint of a smile, which her wistful eyes belied. Chevenix watched her, but could make nothing of it.
“He was a rum 'un,” he continued. “The first time I saw him after you came up here, was when I ran against him by chance in Norfolk somewhere. Spread abroad he was—in flannels—all his things strewn about. He had a little fire going, and a little pot on it. Doing a job of tinkering, he said, to oblige a lady. There was the lady, too, if you please, sitting on a bank, smoking a clay. She had a beard, and an old wide-awake on her head. Senhouse introduced me, I remember. He told me he was on his way North—Wastwater, I think. A planting job up there—or something. Rum chap that! Oh, one of the very rummest! He asked me a lot about you. I didn't know how much he knew, so I went very pussy. The chap was as sharp as a needle. Spotted me. He said, 'My dear sir, I don't ask you what she is doing or where she is. I ask you if she is well.' Then I told him a lot—about you, and Nevile, and all this business. I let out, I tell you. I was fairly deep in the thing—you know that I felt pretty badly, because it was my fault that you ever knew Nevile at all. Don't you suppose I've ever forgiven myself that, Sancie; never you suppose it. No, no.”
He was much moved. She, by a sudden impulse, put out her hand to him. He wrung it, and said, “Thanks, Sancie; thanks, my dear.”
After a wrestling bout, he went on: “Do you know what that fellow said to me? I should like you to know it. Mind you, he was yours, body and soul, then—whatever he may be now. I think he's yours still, for that matter—but then! He never concealed it—so far as I know—from anybody. Now, listen to me.” He heard me out, never said anything till I'd done. Then he looked out over the marshes into the weather, and he said, “No harm ever came to a good woman. I shall see her again, crowned. Now, what do you say to that? Queer, isn't it?”
Sanchia blushed deeply and bent her head. Chevenix marked her confusion, and varied his tone to suit the case. He became practical. “Now, what'll he say about this new state of affairs, do you suppose?”
She lifted her head. “He will think me in the right.”