Keir turned towards the door. But he looked back ere he reached it. Arthur was standing as he had been—motionless.
"You're not thinking of killing yourself, are you?" he said quietly.
Arthur looked at him. His eyes had a different expression now—or was it that something was gleaming softly in them that had not been there before?
"No, no—I am not going to be false to my colours. I—I don't care to talk much about it, but—I am a Christian, Phil."
"At least I can put that horrid idea out of the poor child's head, then," thought Keir to himself. Though to Arthur he did not reply, save by a bend of his head.
Time passed. And in his wings there was healing.
At twenty-four, Daisy Trevannion, though her face bore traces of suffering of no common order, was yet a sweet and serene woman. To some extent she had outlived the strange tragedy of her earlier girlhood.
It had never been explained. The one person who might naturally have been looked to, to throw some light on the mystery, Lingard's sister, Lady West, was, as her brother had stated, completely in the dark. At first she had been disposed to blame Daisy, or her family; and though afterwards convinced that in so doing she was entirely mistaken, she never became in any sense confidential with them on the matter. And after a few months they met no more. For her husband was sent abroad, and detained there on an important diplomatic mission.
Now and then, in the earlier days of her broken engagement, Daisy would ask Philip to "try to find out if Mary West knows where he is". And to please her he did so. But all he learnt was—what indeed was all the sister had to tell—that Arthur was off again on his old travels—to the Capricorn Islands or to the moon, it was not clear which.