LEFT the ship at the nearest port and went direct to London with my mind full of her. It was odd that throughout my long absence I had thought of her but little (the life had been crowded with distractions), and yet as I drew home her face came nearest from the past, remitting the vivid impressions of my voyage into an obscure background. It was her eyes I watched in the blue waves; her frown clouded the skies; her smile danced in the ripples. To love her was no shame, I thought, though to proclaim that love had been dishonour. The touch of that land that contained her gracious body thrilled me as no fervour for my country had been able; to stand upon English soil was to be within the precincts of her worship. The folly blazed in my blood; I could no more withhold myself than my thoughts; hot-foot I drew into the town, with my unruly fever in my eyes. I meant no harm; I had even an inner joy of self-sacrifice; to see her was to put me to a new martyrdom, and yet I had pleasure in my torture. The Day of Judgment could not have stayed me from her. She had slipped out of my hands long since, but I was mad enough to take delight, as it were, in a dream of visiting her face anew; I should see once more the lines of intimate grace I carried in my soul, and, masking my memory, go strutting upon my stilts into a wonderful vainglory. She had never been nearer me than now, remote as she was by three wild years of wandering.
She stood with one foot upon the fender as I entered, her forehead bent upon an open hand, and, as it seemed to me, her face had been worn with tears. But at my approach, starting from her abstraction, she took a step or two to meet me, held out her hand, and gave me her gayest welcome.
'You!' she said: 'you! Heaven grant us these surprises! I had thought you in Japan, in Patagonia, in Manicaland.' A little trembling laugh broke from her. 'What brings you here? Is it peace, or is it war?' And she turned swiftly to the fire again.
She had, I thought, run through a dozen moods in the greeting; and, acquainted as I was with her fickle habit of mind, the transition puzzled me. She was white to the verge of her red lips.
'I am straight from the ship,' I told her. 'I came out of a desirewell, we have been old friends, and three years is a long track in a man's life.'
I laughed myself; but it was a laugh betwixt pleasure in her presence and fear of my own actions. At the moment I felt I was best at a distance.
'You have not called at your club?' said she slowly.
'No,' said I, in wonder at her tone.
She smiled, and dropped into a chair with her individual grace. With her eyes she bade me sit, and leaning to me stared gaily in my face.
'No,' said she, 'three years—is it?—have left no mark on you. You were always handsome,' she said roguishly.
'And you,' I answered, catching her airy manner—'you are as God made you: not a shade less lovely.'
She put her head back with her old gesture; her eyes danced.
'You would have done much for me once,' she said archly.
'Not once,' said I simply.
Her eyes dropped; her face shadowed; she rose and moved slowly to the window by which the street was roaring. Something in her gait struck me as most desolate. She stood drumming her fingers on the pane, and watching the traffic without attention. I too rose and followed her.
'I had forgotten,' I said: 'I should have asked you, I have been out of touch with life. I have heard nothing,' She turned upon me eyes of sudden terror. 'Your husband is living?' I asked.
She passed her hand over her brow, 'O yes,' said she; 'he is living.'
Her misery went through me like a knife; I was within reach of her golden hair, upon which the sunlight rested. Had I met her gaze I think I should have taken her in my arms; as it was, I could not keep my passion out of my voice.
'But yourself,' I murmured, 'yourself, dear: you are happy? There is nothing to regret?'
She sighed and tossed her head. 'O no,' said she with a show of petulance; 'what should there be, my dear stranger?' She walked back to her seat with an indifferent air. 'Come,' she went on more pleasantly, when we were seated again, 'tell me of your doings. The world has not stood still for you, I suppose.'