“Oh yes, of course. He often spoke to me—a charming old boy. I recollect him perfectly. How is he?”
“Better. His lameness is cured, and he’s quite young again.”
“And you have no other news for me,” she remarked meaningly.
“You mean about Stanley. No—nothing,” I said regretfully.
She sighed, and I saw again that hardening at the corners of her mouth which seemed to come with every mention of her husband.
As for myself, my brain was in a whirl: my good resolutions, so easy to make when I was away from her, vanished like smoke. At the same time the suspicion I had felt when I saw her talking to Feng in the dark, lonely road, melted like mist before the sun. She was so frankly innocent and unspoiled; there was about her no trace of coquetry or desire to provoke admiration. The impression grew stronger and stronger as we sat chatting freely in that pretty drawing-room, with the roar of the sea and wind sounding faintly through the curtained windows that, whatever appearances might suggest, this child-bride of a few days was actually alone—more hopelessly alone in her wedded life than if she were in a convent. I saw myself looking into the depths of a soul unsullied, and for the first time, I truly believe, I began to understand dimly some of the feelings and desires that must be tearing at her heart.
“My husband can never return to me!” Over and over again her significant sentence beat itself upon my brain. I could not understand it—I had not the key to the riddle it contained. Yet, for some inexplicable reason it seemed to fill my mind with hope, even though I knew that, so long as Stanley Audley lived, my love for his wife could never be more than a tormenting dream. Try to disguise it how I would, the girl held me, for good or ill; she had fascinated me utterly and completely, not by the purposeful acts of the courtesan, but by her own innate sweetness and modesty. What I had seen that night puzzled me beyond measure, but in the hour I spent with her I became assured that nothing on earth could shake my conviction that in every essential she was true and good and sweet. Time, I felt, would solve the riddle sooner or later.
So I sat there, foolish and fascinated, unable to bring myself to put any serious question to her for fear of causing her sorrow or anxiety. I knew, I felt, that I was indeed walking upon thin ice, that my honor was wearing thin. Yet, I realized that Thelma was not as many other women are, and I dared not again allow the feelings that ran riot in my heart and sweep over me and submerge once more my self-control. So I steeled my heart as best I could.
She said no word of her meeting with the old doctor, who had no doubt come down from London to consult her, and had caught the last train back to Victoria.
Presently she asked—