The news had come of the Japanese Antarctic expedition; the newspapers were always talking of Captain Scott’s preparations; there were vague rumours of other carefully planned attacks. It seemed that all the world was “chipping in,” and that poor old Dyke’s white garden was to have its ice flowers snatched, as if by marauding gangs of mischievous children.
There was talk also, well maintained, of Amundsen and the Fram; and again Emmie observed that Dyke could speak of the gallant Norwegian without wincing. Amundsen—topping fellow—was for the North. More power to him. Only, confound these Japanese, and the rest of them, southward bound.
Beyond the restlessness there was irritability. Often he was irritable with his Emmie, rudely impatient at least once when she was not quick enough to grasp the point of intricate explanations concerning the various plans of these other adventurers; and he snapped at faithful Louisa—a thing he had never done till now. Miss Verinder bore with him, showed always an infinite patience. She could interpret all his emotions; even if she got muddled now and then in latitudes and longitudes. He was suffering in its acutest form the nostalgic longing that is felt by the disabled fox-hunting squire when he has to lie in bed and listen to the huntsman’s voice and horn while hounds are drawing the home coverts. “Oh, damn the doctor. Get my boots, and saddle any old crock that’s left in the stable. I’m going.”
He began to tell her of what he would do if he “made a bid for it” himself, at this eleventh hour. “Do you follow me, Emmie? There are more ways of killing a dog than by choking him with butter.” He said that if he could put his hands on so small a sum as ten thousand pounds, he would join the race—even now. “Listen, Emmie. These are my notions of a chance to get ahead of them all—even now.” She listened meekly and attentively to his interminable harangues; she watched him as he paced to and fro, still talking, quite late at night sometimes, long after they ought to have been asleep; and she never blinked an eye. Nor did she demur, unless conscience obliged her to question his too sanguine calculations.
Then at last he said some words that wounded her most dreadfully.
“Upon my soul, Emmie, you seem as if you could never understand anything.”
She uttered one of her faint little cries; but he went on, not seeing that he had caused her pain. He went on until, pausing for breath, he noticed that her lips were quivering, while her hands agitated themselves queerly; and she said in a strained voice that she knew very well how she failed him for want of intelligence, but she was always trying to improve herself.
“You fail me, what!” He gave a roar as of a stricken beast, and dropped on his knees, with his arms round her, imploring forgiveness. “My darling little Emmie—my guardian angel. Oh, I ought to be kicked from here to Penzance. I didn’t mean it. On my honour I never meant it. Yet, clumsy lout that I am, I said it. Forgive me, oh, forgive me.”
And she, stroking his bowed head, her face shining, said that it was “quite all right”; never could she really doubt his indulgence towards her, his loving kindness.