“I--oh, we searched. We telegraphed for Mr. Bodery, who came down at once. Then Fred rode over, and placed himself at Mr. Bodery's disposal. First he went to Paris, then to Brest. He did everything that could be done, but of course it was of no avail. By Mr. Bodery's advice everything was kept secret. There was nothing in the newspapers.”
She stopped suddenly, and there was a silence in the room. He was looking at her curiously, still ignoring that little left hand. Only one word of her speech seemed to have attached itself to his understanding.
He turned away--walked towards the door, and then returned to the hearthrug, where he stood quite still.
“I suppose it was a quiet wedding,” he said in a hard voice, “on my account; eh?”
“Yes,” she whispered. He waited, but she added nothing.
“I have made a most extraordinary mistake!” he said, and again laughed.
He came nearer to her--quite near, until his sleeve almost touched her bowed head.
“I thought--at St. Mary Western--that you loved _me_.”
She raised her head, and her eyes flashed one momentary appeal for mercy--like the eyes of a whipped dog.
“It was,” she whispered, “because _I_ thought so myself.”
“And when I was gone you found out that you had made a mistake?”
“Yes; he was so kind, so _brave_, Christian--because he knew of my mistake.”
Christian Vellacott turned away, and looked thoughtfully out of the window.
“Well,” he said, after a pause, “so long as you do not suffer by it--”
“Oh--h,” she gasped, as if he were whipping her. She did not quite know what he meant. She does not know now.
At last he spoke again, slowly, deliberately, and without emotion.
“Some day,” he said, “when you are older, when you have more experience of the world, you will probably fall into the habit of thanking God, in your prayers, that I am what I am. It is not because I am good ... perhaps it is because I am ambitious--my father, you may remember, was considered heartless; it may be _that_. But if I were different--if I were passionate instead of being what the world calls cold and calculating--you would be ... your life would be--” he stopped, and turning away he sat down wearily in Aunt Judy's armchair. “You will know some day!” he said.
It is probable that she does know now. She knows, in all likelihood, that her husband would have been powerless to save her from Christian Vellacott--from herself--from that Love wherein there are no roses but only thorns.