The Swindler and Other Stories. Ethel M. Dell

I am not a deserving object for your charity."

      She laughed a trifle breathlessly.

      "Say, Mr. West, couldn't you put that into words of one syllable? You try, and perhaps then I'll listen to you, and give you my views as well."

      But West remained rigorously unresponsive. It was as if he were thinking of other things.

      Cynthia uttered a little sigh and turned to go.

      "Good-bye, Mr. West!" she said.

      He went with her to the door.

      "Shall I walk back with you?" he asked formally.

      She shook her head.

      "No. I'm better now, and it's quite light still beyond the trees. Good-bye, and—thank you!"

      "Good-bye!" he said.

      He followed her to the gate, opened it for her, and stood there watching till he saw her emerge from the shadow cast by the overarching trees. Then—for he knew that the rest of the journey was no more than a few minutes' easy walk—he turned back into the house, and shut himself in.

      Entering the room he had just quitted, he locked the door, and there he remained for a long, long time.

VII

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      It was not till she descended to dinner that Cynthia's injured hand was noticed.

      She resolutely made light of it to all sympathisers but it was plain to Babbacombe, at least, that it gave her considerable pain.

      "Let me send for a doctor," he whispered, as she finally passed his chair.

      But she shook her head with a smile.

      "No, no. It will be all right in the morning."

      But when he saw her in the morning, he knew at once that this prophecy had not been fulfilled. She met his anxious scrutiny with a smile indeed, but her heavy eyes belied it. He knew that she had spent a sleepless night.

      "It wasn't my hand that kept me awake," she protested, when he charged her with this.

      But Babbacombe was dissatisfied.

      "Do see a doctor. I am sure it ought to be properly dressed," he urged. "I'll take you myself in the motor, if you will."

      She yielded at length to his persuasion, though plainly against her will, and an hour later they drove off together, leaving the rest of the party to follow the hounds.

      At the park gate they overtook West, walking swiftly. He raised his hat as they went by, but did not so much as look at Cynthia.

      A sudden silence fell upon her, and it was not till some minutes had passed that she broke it.

      "Shall I tell you what kept me awake last night, Jack?" she said then. "I think you have a right to know."

      He glanced at her, encountering one of those smiles, half-sad, half-humorous, that he knew so well. "You will do exactly as you please," he said.

      "You're generous," she responded. "Well, I'll tell you. I was busy burying my poor foolish little romance."

      A deep glow showed suddenly upon Babbacombe's face. He was driving slowly, but he kept his eyes fixed steadily upon the stretch of muddy road ahead.

      "Is it dead, then?" he asked, his voice very low.

      She made a quaint gesture as of putting something from her.

      "Yes, quite; and buried decently without any fuss. The blinds are up again, and I don't want any condolences. I'm going out into the sun, Jack. I'm going to live."

      "And what about me?" said Babbacombe.

      She turned in her quick way, and laid her hand upon his knee.

      "Yes, I've been thinking about you. I am going back to London to-morrow, and the first thing I shall do will be to find you a really good wife."

      "Thank you," he said, smiling a little. "But you needn't go to London for that."

      "Oh, shucks!" said Cynthia, colouring deeply. "There's more than one woman in the world, Jack."

      "Not for me," he said quietly.

      She was silent for a space. Then:

      "And if that one woman is such a sublime fool, such an ungrateful little beast, as not to be able to—to love you as you deserve to be loved?" she suggested, a slight break in her voice.

      He turned his head at that, and looked for an instant straight into her eyes.

      "She is still the one woman, dear," he said, very tenderly. "Always remember that."

      She shook her head in protest. Her lips were quivering too much for speech.

      Babbacombe drove slowly on in silence.

      At last the hand upon his knee pressed slightly.

      "You can have her if you like, Jack," Cynthia murmured. "She's going mighty cheap."

      He freed his hand for a moment to grasp hers.

      "I shall follow her to London," he said, "and woo her there."

      She smiled at him gratefully and began to speak of other things.

      The doctor was out, to her evident relief. Babbacombe wanted to go in search of another, but she would not be persuaded.

      "I'm sure it will be all right to-morrow. If not, I shall be in town, and I can go to a doctor there. Please don't make a fuss about it. It's too absurd."

      Reluctantly he abandoned the argument, and they followed the hounds in the motor instead.

VIII

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      Babbacombe's guests departed upon the following day. Cynthia was among the first to leave. With a flushed face and sparkling eyes she made her farewells, and even Babbacombe, closely as he observed her, detected no hint of strain in her demeanour.

      Returning from the station in the afternoon after speeding some of his guests, he dropped into the local bank to change a cheque. The manager, with whom he was intimate, chanced to be present, and led him off to his own room.

      "By the way," he said, "we were just going to send you notice of an overdraft. That last big cheque of yours has left you a deficit."

      Babbacombe stared at him. He had barely a fortnight before deposited a large sum of money at the bank, and he had not written any large cheque since.

      "I don't understand," he said. "What cheque?"

      The manager looked at him sharply.

      "Why, the cheque for two hundred and fifty pounds, which your agent presented yesterday," he said. "It bore your signature and was dated the previous day. You wrote it, I suppose?"

      Babbacombe was still staring blankly, but at the sudden question he pulled himself together.

      "Oh, that! Yes, to be sure. Careless of me. I gave him a blank cheque for the Millsand estate expenses some weeks ago. It must have been that."

      But though he spoke with a smiling face, his heart had gone suddenly cold with doubt. He knew full well that the expenses of which he spoke had been paid by West long before.

      He refused to linger, and went out again after a few commonplaces, feeling as if he had been struck a stunning blow between the eyes.

      Driving swiftly back through the park, he recovered somewhat from the shock. There must be—surely there