“Danger be hanged!” said Herold. “I tell you it will be selfish and cowardly not to see her.”
There was a long silence. At last Risca wheeled round abruptly.
“I'm neither selfish nor cowardly. You don't seem to realize what I 've gone through'. I 'm not fit to enter her presence. I 'm polluted. I 'm a walking pestilence. I told you my soul had been dragged through a sewer.”
“Then go and purify it in the sea-wind that blows through Stella's window, John,” said Herold, seeing that he had subdued his anger. “I am not such a fool as to ask you to give up your wretched idea of exile for the sake of our friendship; but this trivial point, in the name of our friendship, I ask you to concede to me. Just grant me this, and I 'll let you go to Melbourne or Trincomalee or any other Hades you choose without worrying you.”
“Why do you insist upon it? How can a sick child's fancies count to a man in such a position?”
His dark eyes glowered at Herold from beneath lowering brows. Herold met the gaze steadily, and with his unclouded vision he saw far deeper into Risca than Risca saw into him. He did not answer the question, for he penetrated, through the fuliginous vapours whence it proceeded, into the crystal regions of the man's spirit. It was he, after a while, who held Risca with his eyes, and it was all that was beautiful and spiritual in Risca that was held. And then Herold reached out his hand slowly and touched him.
“We go down to Southcliff together.”
Risca drew a deep breath.
“Let us go this evening,” said he.
A few hours afterward when the open cab taking them from the station to the Channel House came by the sharp turn of the road abruptly to the foot of the cliff, and the gusty southwest wind brought the haunting smell of the seaweed into his nostrils, and he saw the beacon-light in the high west window shining like a star, a gossamer feather from the wings of Peace fell upon the man's tortured soul.