CHAPTER VIII

WOUNDS IN THE RAIN

"What will you do, love?

When I am going

With white sail flowing,

The seas beyond?

What will you do, love?

When waves divide us

And friends may chide us,

For being fond?"

SAMUEL LOVER.

Recuperation set in at last with Westenra, and he began to return to

health almost as swiftly as he had departed from it, and with health

came a full tide of love and gratitude to the woman who had so devotedly

nursed him back to life. But in the wraith at his bedside he hardly

recognised Val. She had strangely changed, yet poignantly recalled to

him that grey lady of long ago, whom in the past months of pain and

fevered rush he had almost forgotten. Shadows seem to hang about her as

in his dream. Almost it seemed as if she, instead of he, were returning

from the Valley of the Shadow. He was struck to the heart by her worn

and weary look. But when he put out hands of gratitude and compassion

to her, she seemed like the dream woman to elude them without moving. A

long, long distance came between them. The old sad ache of lost lands

was in her eyes and lingered about her lips. Consciousness came upon

him suddenly that he loved this woman deeply, that she was the very

heart of his heart ... then why should he have that sense of fear that

she was escaping from him?

She smiled at him with exile in her eyes when he took her hand, and

kissing it, thanked her for all her goodness to him.

"Bless you, dearest and best ... I am ashamed of myself for getting sick

like this ... to have had you half-killing yourself nursing me ... what

should I have done without you? What would I ever do without you ...

Brannie's mother?"

Was it his fancy that her hand seemed to grow a little rigid in his?

That a shadow passed over her face? He had called her the sweetest

thing he could think of, one that meant so much to him, the symbol of

their love, the treasure saved from the rocks that had broken and

wrecked them--the treasure with which they would build a new ship in

which to sail the stormy seas. He could not know that ever since the

days of delirium she had been yearning for some little word of

_personal_ love, some little name that was all for her as lover, not

mother only. Once more the sense of distance between them came to him.

She seemed suddenly to be a long way off. In effect, he had loosed her

hand and she had moved away to the window. He did not see the heavy

tears that scorched her eyes, but he noticed the droop of her shoulders

and reproached himself.

"I 'm killing her," he thought sombrely, "and she is sick of it! Sick

of nursing me, and of her life here! How can one blame her! I only

wonder it did n't come sooner. How could I ever have hoped to keep a

woman like her ... to make a slave of ... in a doctor's commonplace

home!"

He closed his eyes again and the swift despondency of the invalid welled

up in him. When she came back to his sofa the old moody shadow was on

his face, the look of strain back about his brows. Timidly, and with her

face turned from the light, so that he might not see the trace of her

tears, she said:

"Is there anything you would like, Joe?"

"No, thank you, dear ... I have you!" He spoke gently, and put out his

hand to her without opening his eyes. A moment later his sombre thought

escaped from him almost involuntarily.

"I have you--though God knows for how long!" Then he waited for the

touch of her lips on his, the rush of tender reproach for his unfaith.

He did not indeed know how passionately hungry he was for those

words--until they did not come! Nor how his lips ached for the touch of

hers--until that long, still moment of waiting! Nothing happened;

nothing came. No kiss, no word of protest. He could scarcely believe it

at first. If he had not still been holding her hand, he might have

supposed that she had risen and gone away. For he had not opened his

eyes, but lay waiting as sometimes one waits with eyes closed for the

coming of a beautiful thing. The knowledge flashed upon him suddenly

that it was a long while since Val had kissed him. So long, that he

could scarcely remember when. Was it before his illness? No: looking

back down the vista of burning days of fever and discomfort, he could

remember that before unconsciousness came upon him her fresh mouth was

often laid like a rose upon his dry one and at the memory he longed

again for its fragrance as a thirsty man in the desert longs for a cup

of cold water. He was aware that when at last she did bend over him he

would bind his arms round her, and holding her fast to his heart devour

and consume her, and never let her go from him again. But in the same

moment he was seized with the torment all true lovers know, the

agonising knowledge that however much the lips may devour and the arms

bind, and the heart strain to hold there is a limit to the reach of

human love, a door to which the key will never be found, a barrier

beyond which the aloof and lonely soul of the beloved sits stern and

contemplative, for ever lonely in its secret place. This is the torment

of all earthly love. No true lovers but have sought in each other's

eyes the key of that implacable door, striven to drag the secret from

each other's lips, known the darkness and desolation of that outer

place! Lying there, waiting for his wife's kiss, Garrett Westenra

suffered this torment for the first time.

It was characteristic of him that when at last he understood that she

meant to make no response either by word or deed to the cry of his heart

so thinly veiled beneath the sadness of his words, he did not question

or upbraid her. He only lay very still, turning over and over in his

mind the cruel fact that she was weary of him and of their life

together. Between his half-closed lids he observed her, silent and

white, looking down at the hand which, tightly held by his, lay on her

knee. He realised then how fierce his grip had been, and relaxing it

gently drew away his hand. What good to grip the casket so close when

the jewel it had held for him was gone!

"What do you think we had better do, Val?" he said at last, speaking out

of his pain, and meaning "with the rest of life." He did not expect so

quick and definite a response as she made.

"I think that as soon as you feel well enough to travel you should go

out West, and stay until you are quite strong again."

"You and the children too?"

"Oh! no, no!" she cried hastily--too hastily with so keen a listener

intent on her. She saw her mistake and tried to cover it with calm

reasoning words. "What change would it be for you with us everlastingly

at your heels? Bran rampaging, Haidee worrying--and I--oh, of course,

it would not do at all. You must see that." Her arguments might have

sounded silly but for their urgency to convince, and her pleading eyes.

He stared straight before him, but missed no single shade of her face or

voice.

"We will stay at home and mind things," she continued, "and be quite all

right, until----"

"Until?"

"Until you come back...."

"And then?"

She knew she ought not to let him draw her on, that it would be better

to wait until he returned, but she was an honest creature by nature, and

though circumstances were plunging her deep in duplicity, she had not

yet learned to conceal and wait. Besides, she wanted to get the pain

over, the thing settled and done with, past recanting. If he were cold

and angry so much the better for her. It would be easier to bear than

if he tried to detain her with kind words.

"Then," she stammered, "Garrett, I think, we--the children and I--ought

to go away for awhile ... to England, or France perhaps--some place

where living is more reasonable than here, and I can get strong again,

and be of some use to you...."

No word from him. He did not even raise his eyes. So she stumbled on

hopelessly, embittered by his silence and misunderstanding, longing to

have him see how much she cared, how it broke her heart to make such a

suggestion, yet fearing that he would combat it.

"You know, Garrett, that I am no good in this place ... never have been.

Later perhaps when I am strong again I may be of some use ... when Bran

is older.... You must see for yourself ... I cannot manage the house at

present--(I have always mismanaged it)--with Bran wanting so much

attention. It would be best to get one of your good nurses to take

charge ... anybody could do it better than I...."

So she had it all planned out! She had arranged for "the rest of life"

without consulting him! All the time he lay sick she had been plotting

to escape. Small wonder he felt the return of her old elusiveness, had

become aware of distance between them.

Separation! That was to be the end of the voyage in the dream ship--of

his life with the dream woman. Had it all been a dream perhaps? ... a

dream full of dark places, with thorns for the flesh and pits for the

feet ... but always--that was good to remember in this dark hour--always

stars overhead. The stars had never before failed though they were

dying out now. So she was a quitter after all! A deserter! Unfaithful

to the post she had chosen. Somehow he could never have believed it

except from her lips. It was hard to believe, looking at that face

softly hollowed by weariness and worry, the faithful deep eyes, the

tender lips, the hands grown diaphanous in his service. Nothing had

been too hard or base in his household for those hands to strive with,

he knew that. And how she had nursed him! That he owed his life to her

was certain. And now, so soon, so soon, she nullified all, her

tenderness and devotion, the precious unhappiness, the sacred

sacrifices--the wonderful bonds that trouble shared can make, everything

was broken and rendered void by this act of desertion!

It must be remembered that he came of a race of women who had, so to

speak, habitually lived heroic lives. The men of his family, never able

to offer ease to their women folk, expected heroism and self-sacrifice

of them, and no Westenra woman had ever failed the expectation--_until

now_! Yes, that was a thought that hurt. That ate like acid in an open

wound. Val was not one of _them_! His wife, the woman on whom he had

staked his honour and belief, was not of the stuff of which Westenra

wives were made! Until that hour, spite of failure, trouble, and

disappointment, he could have sworn away his soul on her loyalty--what

did the mere failure of plans, or lack of money matter, when they had

each other, were content to tread the same road together, the same

ideals in their hearts, their eyes fixed on the same stars! And by God

he could have sworn ... but what was the use! She had proved his

judgment wrong, that was all. She was just the ordinary woman, sick of

her job, anxious to get away from it. "Lots of women like her in

America," he reflected sardonically. No one who knew the circumstance

could blame her. He least of all would blame her. Only--his soul was

sick within him! But, as always, he hid his wound from her. Not a sign

of what he felt when at last he spoke, quietly, reflectively, almost it

sounded to her, approvingly.

"No doubt it would be a very wise arrangement."

She had been twisting her hands in nervous agitation, her beautiful,

strange eyes full of the ardour that had always been like wine to him,

though he had never told her so. Now a rush of words came from her

lips, she was almost incoherent in her gratitude.

"Oh, Joe! ... if you think so ... if you won't mind ... it will not be

for long ... only six months or so--a year perhaps."

He stared at her in bitter astonishment. (Only a year perhaps! Why not

ten years--twenty years--the rest of life?)

"I will take such care of your Brannie for you.... I 'll never let him

forget you for a moment ... and I 'll come back so different ... ready

to tackle any problem ... you 'll see what a clever housewife I will

be."

(He did n't want a clever housewife. He had believed he did, but now he

knew that all he wanted was Val. He had arrived at desiring nothing

better than her fantastic housekeeping and gipsy camping-out methods.

She had spoilt him for comfort and set rule.)

"We must get some one to take charge of the place ... Miss Holland is a

splendid woman.... I know she will make a success of it ... and before I

go I will find you a good housekeeper who will look after you well."

(Before she went! Oh! damn it, why should she look at him like that, as

though it were for his happiness she was arranging instead of her own?

As though planning loyalty instead of desertion--treachery! How could

she smile--gladly, gratefully, when she was taking herself out of his

life, robbing him of the light of his son's golden head!)

"And if you will let me have Haidee? ..." she spoke more diffidently

now. "I fear she will be a care to you. I would do my best for

her----"

"No!" he interrupted sharply, "if you take Bran I must console myself

with Haidee. I should think you could spare me her, at least!"

She turned white as death. Haidee to take Bran's place with him! Their

son--her love-baby--to be exiled from his father's heart as well as from

his home! Of what use then all her plotting, her secret grief and

suffering endured, that father and son might be spared.

"Oh, Joe! Oh, Joe!" was all she could say.

He stared at her incredulously. He had no idea she was so fond of

Haidee. It seemed indeed as if she could be fond of any one but

himself! He was thankful that Haidee herself made an end to the

miserable discussion by bounding in at the moment and embracing him

boisterously.

"And can I bring Bran in?" she cried, as soon as she had finished

hugging him. "He 's just on the stairs. Nurse has brought him home

from his walk ... he looks such a duck in his new pink pelisse."

"Yes, bring him in," said Westenra, heavily, but a moment later, when

his son was sprawling on the bed thrusting fat fists into his father's

eyes, exploring his father's nose and ears, moodiness departed from that

father, and he began to laugh like a boy.

"Just feel that leg, Haidee ... muscle--sheer muscle. I tell you this

fellow is a hot number. He 's going to make the athletes sit up and take

notice; are n't you, old man? Hi! that's my nose!"

"He smells like a nice ripe peach! Oh, would n't I love to eat him!"

shrieked Haidee, and hugged him until Val had to call out a warning not

to crack his ribs. She stood watching them, unshed tears scorching her

eyes. They were so dear, so very dear, that man and child; and Haidee

too was dear for loving them so well. It was pain even to look at them.

Their dearness burnt like flame. She felt that if she stayed in the

room a moment longer she must fling herself down by them, cry out the

truth to Westenra, tell him she could never leave him, nor rob him of

his son. But that way madness lay. Sorrow and shame, worse things than

separation for a time, must come of that. No, she must bear it alone.

Her hand was to the plough and she must not turn weakly back. Even now

there was that to do that was part of the plot, and she must leave the

dear ones to go and do it.

"I think they can spare me for a little while," she thought, not without

a certain tender irony, for the crowd on the bed were so very wrapped up

in their own performances. Unnoticed, she slipped from the room, and

went to Westenra's office to typewrite a letter.

When she did not keep the appointment at Shrapp's Hotel with Valdana, he

had, as she foresaw, called at No. 700 in search of Alice Brook. On

hearing that she had left, he asked for an interview with Mrs. Westenra.

Fortunately, Val had not been with Garrett, but in her room resting with

a bad headache, when the new maid, a Wicklow girl of good type, who had

developed a great devotion for her mistress, brought in the card. By an

effort Val had managed to control herself and look with calmness upon

the inscribed name.

"Mr. John Seymour! Who is he? What does he want, Mary?"

"I don't know, ma'am, he did not say, but sure it's a sick man he is by

the colour av him."

"Go down and find out. If he is a patient, tell him the doctor is very

ill and will not be able to see patients for a month or two at least.

If he is in a hurry he had better go to Dr. Dillon, who is seeing all

Dr. Westenra's patients at present."

This gave her time, and would she thought allay Valdana's suspicion, if

he had one, of any connection between herself and Alice Brook. But she

was sick with apprehension and lay white on her pillow when the maid

reappeared; the answer was as expected: the gentleman's business was not

with the doctor, but with the mistress of the house.

"Sure, it's the character of the last housemaid he wants, ma'am. He 's

afther engaging her," Mary announced and Val's heart gave a great jump

of fright. The next moment she realised that this was most likely a

ruse, a mere excuse for finding out what he wanted to know of her

whereabouts.

"The character of Alice Brook?" she said mechanically.

"Yes, ma'am. And I took the liberty of telling him, ma'am, that you

could not be plagued with such affairs now, and you destroyed nursing

the doctor and all, and he 'd better be afther writing for what he

wants."

Val could have embraced the kindly creature, but she gave no sign, only

said quietly:

"You did quite right, Mary. But to save time you may tell this

gentleman, Mr.--," she looked at the card--"Mr. Seymour, that as far as

character goes Alice Brook was quite a good girl--honest, sober, an

early riser, diligent (she could not forbear a wry smile to think that

in the last three points at least the formula applied equally to

herself); her chief defect was that she was quite ignorant as to the

duties of a housemaid, and I had no time to train her. I cannot think

of anything further that it is necessary for him to know, but if there

should be he can write."

As the maid was leaving the room, she added thoughtfully:

"Don't let him linger asking questions, Mary. It seems a curious thing

for a gentleman to be occupying himself with a housemaid's references.

He may not be what he professes at all, but some scamp----"

She knew that upon that hint Mary would polish him off without ceremony,

and she felt no compunction in giving it. Could any one indeed be a

worse scamp? What was he there for but to spy out and blackmail, and

cause ruin and dismay to her and her loved ones? She trembled with rage

and terror when she thought of him being in the same house with Garrett

and Bran. But for an accident she might have been seen by him, or his

card brought up to her at Westenra's bedside! There was no reason for

him to have come to the house at all. True, she had not kept the

appointment, but she had kept faith with him in the matter of money, had

sold a greater part of her jewels, and sent him the proceeds by

registered post. At the same time she had written him a letter telling

him firmly that there was nothing to be gained by their meeting. She

reminded him that all question of their being anything to each other was

over many years past, and that certainly the circumstances of his

reappearance did not incline her to renew any kind of intimacy with him.

In consideration of his health she promised she would do her best for

him, and spare him any money she could.

"But it is no use hounding me," she wrote, full of the cold fury of a

mother robbing her loved ones to give to a wolf, for the money gained on

her jewels would have paid many a bill hanging over the household at the

moment. "You must not forget that I too need to live. And you are not

to torment me. If ever I make money again I will let you have all I

can, but I do not hold out any great hope. In the meantime take this,

and leave America with it. If I have anything to send you I will do so

through your mother. But leave me alone--surely you have caused me

enough sorrow! All I ask is to be left alone."

Thus she had written in her agony and desperation, and sent with the

letter the sum of one hundred and ten pounds. Yet a week later he was

on the doorstep intent on tracking her down! Well, she had cut the

ground from under his feet by her message through Mary. With the

information he had asked for concerning Alice Brook he had no further

pretext for calling at the house, or even writing. Not that she relied

on that. Horace Valdana had failed in all honourable things, but never

in lies, pretexts, and inventions. She could hardly suppose he would do

so now. As the event proved, she was right. For two weeks there was

silence. Almost she had begun to hope when there came a letter, polite

but formal, asking if Mrs. Westenra would have the kindness to oblige

the writer with the home address of her late housemaid, Alice Brook.

"She had been in my service for ten days or so" (ran the letter), "but

went out one day and never returned. I am much troubled, and should

like to communicate with her friends. I feel sure that you will give me

such assistance as you can in the matter. If you do not know her home

address, perhaps you can tell me from what agency you originally engaged

her? I may in that way be able to trace her.

"With apologies for troubling you,

"Believe me,

"Very truly yours,

"JANE SEYMOUR."

"_Jane Seymour!_" She could imagine with what a cynical smile he

produced that tag of history from the rag-bag of his memory, and made it

serve his purpose as a nom-de-plume. For though the name of good King

Hal's third queen might or might not have been borne by one of America's

fair daughters, the writing was the writing of Horace Valdana! It was

one more attempt to get on to the trail of his victim.

The address at the top of the letter was Number 439 West 19th

Street--the same number in fact as Shrapp's Hotel; but of course Mrs.

Westenra would not know this. She was to suppose it the number of the

private house occupied by Mrs. Jane Seymour! No doubt Mr. John Seymour

would be on the lookout for Mrs. Jane's correspondence!

This was the letter to which she now typed the following answer on her

husband's typewriter:

"MADAME,--I beg to state that I can give you no information concerning

the whereabouts of my late housemaid, Alice Brook. When I have once

supplied a discharged servant with a formal reference, I feel that my

responsibility to her is at an end. I must, therefore, request you to

relieve me of all further inquiries upon a subject in which I have

neither the time nor inclination to interest myself."

This missive, designedly as rude and arrogant as she knew how to make

it, she signed with a hieroglyphic signature in which might be

discovered after careful study some resemblance to "Anne Westenra" (her

second name was Anne), but that was quite unlike any signature ever put

on paper by Valentine Valdana.

In the end she almost spoiled all by one of those absent-minded mistakes

that sometimes betray the best laid plots and plans. She addressed the

envelope in her natural handwriting. She had stamped and closed it and

risen to ring for Mary to take it to the letter-box at the end of the

street (for since her _rencontre_ with Valdana she had not dared go

out), when, with her hand on the electric button, some bell in her brain

rang a warning that something was wrong. She stared at the letter in

her hand for a full minute before she recognised her _betise_, then the

shock sent her back to her seat half fainting, pale as a witch.

"What an escape! What an escape!" she muttered with dry lips. "I must

be going mad! My brain is giving way! Oh, if I had posted it!"

Valdana would have been quick to recognise her writing and see through

the whole thing--_that she was Mrs. Westenra_. All would have been

lost!

"But I would have torn down the letter-box--set fire to it--blown it

up--rather than he should have got the letter," she muttered fiercely.

In that moment she knew herself one of those who in the cause of love

are capable of crime; that there was not anything she would not do to

save her son from being branded illegitimate and Westenra from shame.

But she was shaken to the depths by her narrow escape, and the thought

that any moment her overtried brain might betray her. It was clear that

she must depart as soon as possible from New York. Her presence there

was a danger. The moment she reached England she could communicate with

Valdana's mother, and once he found she had gone from America, he too

would make for Europe.

From that day forward a gulf yawned between Westenra and his wife--a

gulf into whose depths every sweet memory they had ever shared seemed to

have disappeared. The only things that could have bridged it over were

confidence and love, but he no longer believed in her love, and she

could not give him her confidence. Desperate and dismayed, she saw the

chasm widening day by day between them, but though her spirit held out

arms to him imploring his love and belief in her loyalty, and in her

eyes she could not quench the light of tenderness, she stayed firm to

her purpose.

And Westenra felt the spirit arms entwining him, and saw the beacon in

her eyes, and cursed her for a false trifler, a juggler with the arts

and tricks of women. For when he approached her, lured by the beacon,

she retreated, subtly intervening between them that sense of distance.

And she was cold as death to his touch. Her hand, if he took it, lay

like a stone in his, her lips eluded him. They were to all intents and

purposes strangers to each other. She had never kissed him since he

came back to the world of consciousness! What could he suppose but that

her love for him was worn out.

All her kisses were for Bran it seemed. She would at times almost

violently snatch the child from his arms, and kiss it feverishly,

hungrily, just where he had kissed it, as if to drag the flavour of his

lips--or as Westenra bitterly thought, remove all trace of them--from

the little face.

He was a proud man, and his pride sustained him in this dark and

incomprehensible crisis of their life together. With extraordinary

self-control, born of his pity for her, he refrained from reproach or

any violent sign of his inward rage and pain; but often a sort of

primitive savagery in him ached to smite the eyes that mocked him with

their false tenderness, and there were moments when he longed to take

her by the throat and kill her, while he kissed the lips she withheld

from him.

Life was in fact an active wearing misery to them both.

He was once more sound in health. His plan was to go softly under the

stars for awhile and perform no serious operations, but he felt quite

equal to taking up the ordinary threads of his practice again. His main

worry was Val. Her resolution to go to Europe meant not only the

_bouleversement_ of home and hospital, but of their whole future life.

He was far from wishing to keep a woman who did not care for him tied to

his side. But he retained a kind of ungrounded hope that after she

rested awhile from the heavy strain his illness had entailed, she would

gradually return to her old, ardent generous self and give up the

fantastic plan for leaving America. He saw very well that she must go

somewhere. Her physique was in rags. She had grown so fragile that her

bones almost pierced her skin, and her face was the face of a ghost.

His heart was wrung with pity for her. None more anxious than he that

she should go away and rest, and to use his last cent for the purpose if

need be. What hurt was that she should want to go so far and for so

long; that she should have planned it all so eagerly while he lay sick,

and hold fast to it so resolutely now that he was well. Once so pliant

to all his wishes she was firm as a rock in this, and he had no will to

oppose her. His heart was always tender for the sick, and it was plain

to the dullest eye that she was a sick woman. He schooled himself to

believe at last that her strange coldness was a result of this sickness.

He had half-killed her with overwork and worry, small wonder that she

hated him! It was not treachery, not the quitting spirit, but the whim

of a sick and weary child. The generous thing was to bear with her

unreproaching, and at whatever cost to himself, humour her wish. It was

in this spirit that he told her to pack up, and he would, when she gave

the word, take steamer tickets for her and the children. He arranged

for Mary, the Wicklow maid, to accompany her too. He would have offered

to go himself, though he knew the hospital needed him, but that he could

feel her projecting a very stone wall of opposition to such a purpose.

He had almost to insist on her taking Haidee at the last, for she seemed

now to hang back from the idea, looking at him with strange eyes when he

said that Haidee would be better in her care than any one else's. How

could he know that his delirium had betrayed to her old doubts of his,

which in sane moments he would himself have been ashamed of harbouring,

and which had long since been banished from his mind by her bright

gallantry. He had come to believe, indeed, that Haidee was better with

Val than with any one. Further, he did not in the least want Haidee

with him. She would not for one moment comfort him for the loss of Bran

and his wife. He had only said the thing in that first bitterness of

heart. Rather he looked upon Haidee's going as a safeguard to his own

happiness, for if Val's illness grew worse, the child would be able to

give him the news at once. Mary was going only for the voyage, and on

arriving at Southampton would go straight on to Ireland where her mother

needed her.

When he found at last that Val's reason for lingering in New York was

that she was not satisfied with the people she was leaving behind to

take charge of the house and his comfort, he summarily, even savagely,

turned on her and told her he was well able to take care of himself.

Indeed, he considered this anxiety for his welfare somewhat forced and

unnecessary. Well she knew what he needed for his welfare--that it was

neither a good cook, nor a housekeeper, nor a matron for his

hospital--and, knowing it, she still went from him, betook herself out

of his life, put the ocean between them!

And so at the last, on one grey day late in the year, it was almost in

bitterness they parted, haggard and broken, hiding their hearts from

each other.

As the White Star liner steamed down the river he stood on the dock and

waved farewell to the little group that now made up his dear portion of

life; Haidee, all long tags of hair, yelling boisterously; Mary holding

up Bran pink and shining; Val, wraith-like in her long grey silk cloak,

seeming among her veils to be floating rather than leaning from the side

of the ship, her hands put out at the last in an involuntary gesture as

of entreaty--for what? Forbearance, forgiveness, understanding?

"God knows what is in her strange heart!" thought Westenra.

A gleam of light struck on something bright she wore--he recognised the

beads of her weird necklace. The comfort necklace! He had never seen

her wear it since the day she had swung it in her hand as they walked

the deck of the _Bavaric_.

Poor Val! was she too in need of comfort then?

Was she thinking of the dream ship on which she had sailed so

confidently into this very port not two years gone?

He turned heavily away.