“Geoffrey!” said his wife, looking up with eyes full or tears. He had never before said as much, and she was deeply touched. Unconsciously his few words revealed to her the rare unselfishness of his character. Even in looking back to what truly had been the bitterest trial of his life, he thought of the past if not solely, at least chiefly, from her point of view. “What would it not have saved you.”
She might have perhaps said more, but a servant’s entering interrupted them. Geoffrey was obliged to leave that morning in order to reach the half-way point the same evening, so as to be ready to start with his charge the following day at an early enough hour to reach Mallingford before dark the succeeding afternoon. But he carried with him on his journey a companion which cheered and encouraged him as he had little hoped ever again to be cheered and encouraged.
All through, the long railway journey, in the unfamiliar, bustling town where he spent the night, it was present with him—the remembrance of a sweet, pale face and soft eyes dimmed with tears, gently calling him by name in a voice half of reproach, but telling surely of something more. Something he had not all through these weary months ventured to hope for as possible for him even in the furthest future. Could it be, or was he mad to think it, could it be that Marion, his wife, was learning to care for him?
The thought thrilled him through and through. It gave a brightness to his face and manner that poor Veronica rejoiced to see. She was not given to the asking of intrusive questions, or of beating about a delicate subject in hopes of discovering its exact condition, (both which modes of torture some people seem to consider a proof of the most devoted friendship) so she said nothing at all verging on the matter so constantly in her thoughts. But the tone in which Geoffrey replied to her affectionate enquiries about his wife, fell pleasantly on her ear.
“She is much better,” said Geoffrey, “but she really has been very ill. I can’t bear to hear her coughs, though the doctor assures me she is perfectly sound. To tell you the truth, Veronica,” he added, with a half smile, “I am such a baby about Marion, I didn’t half like leaving her even for a day.”
“It was very good of you, dear Geoffrey,” said Miss Temple. “I really don’t know how I should have got home without you. But if I had had the least notion she was ill I would never have asked it.”
“There was not the slightest reason really for my not corning,” said Geoffrey, “only you see I’m ridiculously anxious about her. But she would never have forgiven me if I hadn’t come. She is always so delighted if we can be of the least use to you. No one I’m sure deserves as much of us.”
“You are very dear, good children both of you,” said Veronica. “And were I, as I hope to be before I die, perfectly assured that I have throughout acted for your real good by both of you, I think—I think I should die content.”
“She had said more than she had intended. A moment after she almost regretted having done so, for though Geoffrey pressed her hand, her poor wasted hand, which years ago in girlhood had been so round and pretty, he said nothing; and she half fancied her words brought a red flush to his fair face.
Their journey was accomplished in safety. It was pretty late in the afternoon when their train puffed into Mallingford station, and Geoffrey jumped out on to the platform to see that the easiest of the “King’s Arms” carriages was in waiting according to command, for the invalid lady.