The Dust of Conflict

Appleby rose, and Mrs. Wayne, who went out with him, turned to him in the hall.

“Are you staying any time at Darsley, Mr. Appleby?” she said. “We shall be pleased to see you.”

“It was good of you to permit me to come once, madame,” said Appleby. “It will be a week, at least, before I can get away, but I think a little reflection will convince you that it would be better if I did not come here again.”

Mrs. Wayne looked at him quietly. “There is no reason why you should not. You will, of course, understand that Violet told me Miss Harding’s story.”

Appleby did not remember what he answered, but he drove away with a curious feeling of content, and Mrs. Wayne went back to the room where her daughter sat very still in her chair. Stooping down she kissed her gently.

“Did it hurt very much, Violet?” she said.

The girl seemed to shiver. “No,” she said in a strained voice. “Not so much as I expected – in the way you mean. It was a splendid reparation Tony made.”

Mrs. Wayne laid her hand caressingly on her daughter’s hair. “You have told me very little, Violet – and people with your reserve find their troubles the harder to bear.”

For a moment or two the girl gazed at the fire. “Mother. I must talk at last. I have almost a horror of myself,” she said. “I was wickedly hard to Tony when Nettie Harding told me, and I felt very bitter against him when he went away. I could not overcome the feeling, though I tried – and now when I should ask it of him – he cannot forgive me.”

Mrs. Wayne did not appear altogether astonished. “And yet I think he understood that you would marry him when he came back.”

“I made him an implied promise – and I would have kept it. I am glad I did so now.”

“It would have been difficult? Still, you loved him once.”

Violet turned her eyes away, and once more seemed to shiver. “No,” she said with a little quaver in her voice. “I seem to have realized since he went away that I never did. Still, until Nettie Harding told me, I fancied I did – and I believed in him. He was so generous, and light-hearted – and, though I am wickedly exacting, I am not hard all through. I can’t shake off the horror I feel because I am not more sorry now.”

Mrs. Wayne bent down and kissed her again. “My dear, I do not think the right man would find you hard,” she said. “Still, I am afraid you will die single. You expect too much.”

Appleby, who saw Violet and her mother twice before the week was out, found that the negotiations for an extension of building sites and water rights at Dane Cop which Craythorne had undertaken would delay him another week. The lawyer had urged him to wait in London, and pointed out the risk of recognition or an encounter with Sergeant Stitt; but Colonel Melton lived at a distance of several miles from Northrop, and Appleby for no very apparent reason preferred that vicinity. Then when the affair was decided, and there was nothing to delay his sailing for New York, he set out on foot on a farewell visit to Mrs. Wayne’s house, and, as it happened, did not find her or her daughter in. He went on to Low Wood, and discovering that Hester Earle half expected Violet spent an hour there in fierce impatience. The afternoon was rapidly wearing through, and as he had taken his passage by the “Cunarder” to sail from Liverpool on the following day it was essential that he should leave Darsley that night.

Still, Violet did not come, and he was proceeding ruefully towards Colonel Melton’s when he overtook her walking home. The light was growing dim, but he almost fancied that she started when she saw him. Her voice was, however, as quiet and low as usual when she greeted him.

“I am very glad I met you, because I could not find you at home, and I am going away to-night,” he said.

There was the slightest trace of astonishment and concern in the girl’s eyes. “Then you will come back with me,” she said.

“I’m afraid I can’t,” said Appleby, with a glance at his watch. “Still, with your permission, I will walk a little of the way with you.”

They went on together, and it was not because they desired it that Tony Palliser held a leading place in their thoughts, and twice at least Appleby mentioned him. Then the girl said slowly, “I have heard from Mr. Earle that you do not mean to clear yourself. That is very generous but – one must mention it – is it wise?”

Appleby showed a trace of disconcertion. “I do not know why he told you, but as I shall, I think, spend most of my life in America it could do me little good to vindicate myself,” he said. “Only a few people know the truth, and they will keep my confidence, while the rest would not believe it. Tony made reparation for the wrong he did me, and if he had not risked the cazador’s bayonet I do not think I should be here now.”

“Still, did it never occur to you that you might marry?”

Appleby stopped without intending it, and both stood still. The saffron and green of the sunset was shining low down between the bare branches of a copse close by, and there was still a little light in the sky, and the man, lifting his eyes, looked at his companion. It was evident that she had spoken without reflection and was sorry for it, for he could see a tinge of color in her face, but it was the vague apprehension in her eyes that seized his attention. For a moment he stood silent, and felt his heart beating. Then an impulse which rose from the depth of his nature swept restraint away.

“Yes,” he said almost grimly. “Still, that may never happen. I have too great aspirations, you see – and if it ever came about the woman would understand my motives.”

“Then you have seen her – she is not a fancy?”

Violet had not meant to say this, but the words seemed forced on her, and it was almost with a sense of confusion she realized that they had escaped her. Still, she stood looking at the man quietly, and saw the little quiver that ran through him. Then it was with a strenuous effort she preserved her tranquillity, for she knew.

“Yes,” he said in a strained voice, “I have seen her. Her face was with me on many a weary march in Cuba – though I tried to drive it away.”

The color was a trifle more evident in the girl’s cheeks. “You found it difficult? But would not the stain of an offence you did not commit prove an insuperable barrier?”

“No,” said Appleby with a quietness that cost him an effort, “I do not think it would. The story would not be known in America.”

There was silence for a space, and while both stood very still the truth was plain between them. Then it was the girl who spoke.

“You have great faith,” she said.

Appleby made a little forceful gesture. “It is warranted,” he said. “I am going away to-morrow. You know why it is necessary – but if I come back again will you listen to what I shall have to tell you?”

Violet Wayne regarded him with eyes that shone softly.

“Yes,” she said very quietly.

Then with a grasp of her hand Appleby turned away, and Violet went on slowly down the dusky lane.

THE END