Anthony shook his head. "It would take no end of generosity, no end of
gentleness to forgive such a dead set. For my part I would have liked
better to have been killed and done with at once. It could not have been
worse for you--and I suppose it was of you that he was thinking most
while those infernal lawyers were badgering him in court. Of you. And
now I think of it perhaps the sight of you may bring it all back to him.
All these years, all these years--and you his child left alone in the
world. I would have gone crazy. For even if he had done wrong--"
"But he hasn't," insisted Flora de Barral with a quite unexpected
fierceness. "You mustn't even suppose it. Haven't you read the accounts
of the trial?"
"I am not supposing anything," Anthony defended himself. He just
remembered hearing of the trial. He assured her that he was away from
England, the second voyage of the Ferndale. He was crossing the
Pacific from Australia at the time and didn't see any papers for weeks
and weeks. He interrupted himself to suggest:
"You had better tell him at once that you are happy."
He had stammered a little, and Flora de Barral uttered a deliberate and
concise "Yes."
A short silence ensued. She withdrew her hand from his arm. They
stopped. Anthony looked as if a totally unexpected catastrophe had
happened.
"Ah," he said. "You mind . . . "
"No! I think I had better," she murmured.
"I dare say. I dare say. Bring him along straight on board to-morrow.
Stop nowhere."
She had a movement of vague gratitude, a momentary feeling of peace which
she referred to the man before her. She looked up at Anthony. His face
was sombre. He was miles away and muttered as if to himself:
"Where could he want to stop though?"
"There's not a single being on earth that I would want to look at his
dear face now, to whom I would willingly take him," she said extending
her hand frankly and with a slight break in her voice, "but
you--Roderick."
He took that hand, felt it very small and delicate in his broad palm.
"That's right. That's right," he said with a conscious and hasty
heartiness and, as if suddenly ashamed of the sound of his voice, turned
half round and absolutely walked away from the motionless girl. He even
resisted the temptation to look back till it was too late. The gravel
path lay empty to the very gate of the park. She was gone--vanished. He
had an impression that he had missed some sort of chance. He felt sad.
That excited sense of his own conduct which had kept him up for the last
ten days buoyed him no more. He had succeeded!