“What a way to treat me after all I have been through for him,” she blazed out, but Curtis remained silent.
“He said he loved me, and that he would remain true to me,” she went on.
“I am afraid Lord Reckavile has said that to many,” said Curtis dryly, drawing a paper towards him, “and as for standing by you, you are the first who has had the honour of becoming Lady Reckavile.”
His tone was final, and she felt the futility of talking to a parchment faced lawyer, whose sympathies were obviously with Lord Reckavile, and who considered she was getting out of it very well. With a toss of her head she went, vowing she would never enter the place again.
And Reckavile paced the deck of the Channel boat, deep in thought. His mind ran on suicide, which was the common weakness in his family, and generally the solution of impossible positions.
Then another thought came to him, and the more he turned it over, the better he liked it. Why not end the Line without violent means. He would give Winnie his name and the Estate for what it was worth. As Lord Reckavile he would cease to exist, but in sunny Italy, Hugh Desmond would bury himself with his little wife, and he would earn a living by his painting, for he was no mean artist.
The idea pleased him. Flowers and kisses, and lying in the sun, with not too much work, and perhaps a minor war or so to chase away boredom. By the time he had reached Italy he had made up his mind. There was only one more hurdle, the ceremony in London, and then happiness awaited him. The bigamy did not worry him in the least, such trifles were nothing to a Reckavile.
At Venice he waited all day, and a strange feeling of apprehension came to him. Suppose something had happened to Carlotta in his absence; he had left her, a mere girl—alone, with only servants of whom he knew nothing. Suppose she were ill, or even dead. A nervousness never felt before beset him. Impatiently he drove out to Murano, and came to the Villa San Rocco. Night was falling as he passed through the lovely garden, and approached the windows from which a soft light shone. She was sitting inside, a piece of work had dropped from her hands to the floor, and her great eyes were gazing at nothing. How sweet she looked and how dainty, but so sad. He had never seen her thus, and pity filled his heart, and reproach.
He entered through the open window, and with a great cry she came to him, holding out both arms. He took her to himself in a passionate embrace, and with a feeling deeper than the old stirring of desire. She raised her radiant face to his in perfect happiness.
“Oh, Hugh, I am so happy. You’ve come back to me.”