Part 20 (1/2)

”It didn't take you long to discover that home's the best place,” he remarked, with a sideways furtive look at her. ”How did you find them all? Jim still grousing, I suppose? And the small boy a perennial note of interrogation?”

”Everything was much the same,” she answered in a dispirited voice.

”They were all a little older in appearance, and the children have grown tremendously. I wish you had been with me. Rose was hurt, I think, because you did not go.”

”Oh, really! I should have thought she would have felt relieved.”

”Why?”

He disregarded the question. Abruptly he put out an unsteady hand and laid it upon hers.

”Tired?” he asked.

”A little.” She twisted her hand round in her lap and her fingers closed upon his. ”What have you been doing during my absence?”

”Mainly missing you,” he answered. ”A reversion to one's bachelor days is a dull sort of holiday.”

”I know. But what was I to do? I don't want to lose touch altogether with my ain folk.”

”I have no folk,” he said, ”so I can't understand these family ties. I think them a bore. But if you had a good time that's the chief thing.

You've a lot of friends at the Bay, and you find pleasure in them. My friends are silent companions and are better suited to my taste. How did your people think you were looking? None the worse for being tied to this dull person, I hope?”

She laughed and squeezed his hand.

”They were impressed with my staid appearance, and the fact that I am putting on weight,” she said. ”I didn't realise it myself until Jim told me I was getting fat.”

”That is a Jim-like touch,” he returned, and glanced at her cursorily.

”The grossness is not apparent to me. Did you meet Sinclair during your stay?”

”Yes,” she said, and looked surprised that he should ask the question.

That he had once been jealous of Sinclair was unknown to her.

”And does he still wear the willow for your sake?”

”He isn't married,” she answered. ”But I don't think that has anything to do with me.”

She regretted that he had opened this subject. The memory of Sinclair was a distress to her. The change in him had struck her more forcibly than the change in any member of her own family. The difference in him was not due alone to the pa.s.sing years. He was altered in manner as much as in appearance; all the boyish gaiety had departed: he was older, more thoughtful; the irresponsible gladness of youth, formerly so noticeable a characteristic of his, was missing. She could have wept at the change in him. He was still her devoted slave. During her visit he had haunted her sister's house. He had claimed the privilege of friends.h.i.+p and put himself at her disposal. He was always at hand when she needed him. And never once by word or gesture had he attempted to overstep the boundary of friends.h.i.+p. She felt grateful to him for his consistent and considerate kindness. She did not want to discuss him, even with Paul.

Hallam did not pursue the subject. He fell into silence and left her to do the talking. During the remainder of the drive she chatted fragmentally and brightly of her doings while she had been away.

Princ.i.p.ally she talked about the children. The sight of John and Mary, the sound of their gay young voices, their insistent claim upon the general attention, had brought home to her the absence of the one great interest in her own home. She wanted children intensely; and it did not seem that her desire would ever be satisfied. A child would have completed her married happiness.

Something of what was in her thoughts she managed to convey to Hallam when they reached the house and entered together, her arm within his.

Alone in the drawing-room, when he held her in his embrace and kissed the bright upturned face, she slipped her hands behind his neck and looked back at him with tender loving eyes.

”Paul,” she whispered, ”I wish we had a child of our very own--a wee sc.r.a.p of soft pink flesh, with tiny clinging hands. My dear, my dearest, I do so want a child!”

He gazed down at her, troubled and immeasurably surprised, and gently kissed the tremulous lips. He had never given any thought to the matter until now, when he realised the aching mother-hunger expressed in her desire: she had concealed it so successfully hitherto. He did not himself wish for children; the thought of them even was an embarra.s.sment. With clumsy tenderness he stroked her hair.

”It seems as though it is not to be,” he said. ”I didn't know you cared so much, sweetheart.”