They returned to the dog-cart, and drove back, in so brooding a silence on his part, that she dashed into small talk, lest he should be contemplating some rash words. As they drove past the inn, she averted her eyes that she might not see the green, or recall what had stood there. The vision of poor Bert, with his bashful, uncertain smile, his ridiculous flowers, his hesitating advance, rose before her, creating sheer nausea. Once more she was lying in the parlour at High Farm, once more she felt the agony of her wounds, the scars of which must to this day be hidden from her dressmaker. The crimson of shame suffused her. Oh, if he could but have kept away! Usually she managed to forget all this—to forget that she was branded, physically and morally, by the searing flames of degradation. He was the living reminder of all she hated and rejected.
She fell silent, unable to continue her babble; and Bert was silent too. But as they neared the railway, and he found moments running short, he made a spasmodic effort at conversation.
"You were brought up in Africa, were you not?" he asked, as casually as he could. He might as well have held a match to gunpowder.
She turned upon him with a deadly quietude.
"Never speak to me of it," she said, almost between her teeth. "I have forgotten it all. Every memory, of place or people, revolts me. There is nothing that ever happened there, and nobody I ever knew there, except Mr. Mayne, that inspires me with any feeling but horror."
They were turning into the station yard. He made no reply to her words until he had brought the pony to a standstill; then, turning fully to her, he said, very simply:
"I beg your pardon."
Something in his dignity shamed her. He helped her down in silence, collected her odds and ends, felt under the seat, and brought out the fatal bunch of primroses, which he carried to the platform.
As they stood waiting, she said, hurriedly and nervously:
"I am sorry, Captain Brooke. I didn't mean to speak so horridly about Africa. I hope I didn't hurt your feelings."