I still stroked her hair. "I wouldn't let it be too soon," said I.
Her eyes were downcast. "On account of Willie?" she murmured.
"No, dear. I don't dare touch on that side of things."
Again a whisper. "Why, then?"
How could I tell her why without betrayal of Boyce? I had to turn the question playfully. I said, "What should I do without my Betty?"
"Do you really care about me so much?"
I laughed. There are times when one has to laugh--or overwhelm oneself in dishonour.
"Now you see my nature in all its vile egotism," said I, and the statement led to a pretty quarrel.
But after it was over to our joint satisfaction, she had to return to the distressful main theme of our talk. She harked back to Sir Anthony, touched on his splendid behaviour, recalled, with a little dismay, the hitherto unnoted fact that, after the ceremony he had held himself aloof from those that thronged round Boyce. Then, without hint from me, she perceived the significance of the Fenimores' retirement from Wellingsford.
"Leonard's ignorance," she said, "leaves him in a frightful position.
More than ever he ought to know."
"He ought, indeed, my dear," said I. "And I will tell him. I ought to have done so before."
I gave my undertaking. I went to bed upbraiding myself for cowardice and resolved to go to Boyce the next day. Not only Fate, but honour and decency forced me to the detested task.
Alas! Next morning I was nailed to my bed by my abominable malady. The attacks had become more frequent of late. Cliffe administered restoratives and for the first time he lost his smile and looked worried. You see until quite lately I had had a very tranquil life, deeply interested in other folks' joys and sorrows, but moved by very few of my own. And now there had swooped down on me this ravening pack of emotions which were tearing me to pieces. I lay for a couple of days tortured by physical pain, humiliation and mental anguish.
On the evening of the second day, Marigold came into the bedroom with a puzzled look on his face.
"Colonel Boyce is here, sir. I told him you were in bed and seeing nobody, but he says he wants to see you on something important. I asked him whether it couldn't wait till to-morrow, and he said that if I would give you a password, Vilboek's Farm, you'd be sure to see him."
"Quite right, Marigold," said I. "Show him in."
Vilboek's Farm! Fate had driven him to me, instead of me to him. I would see him though it killed me, and get the horrible business over for ever.
Marigold led him in and drew up a chair for him by the bedside. After pulling on the lights and drawing the curtains, for the warm May evening was drawing to a close.
"Anything more, sir, for the present?" he asked.
"Could I have materials for a whisky and soda to hand?" said Boyce.
"Of course," said I.
Marigold departed. Boyce said:
"If you're too ill to stand me, send me away. But if you can stand me, for God's sake let me talk to you."
"Talk as much as you like," said I. "This is only one of my stupid attacks which a man without legs has to put up with."
"But Marigold--"
"Marigold's an old hen," said I.
"Are you sure you're well enough? That's the curse of not being able to see. Tell me frankly."
"I'm quite sure," said I.
I have never been able to get over the curious embarrassment of talking to a man whose eyes I cannot see. The black spectacles seemed to be like a wall behind which the man hid his thoughts. I watched his lips.
Once or twice the odd little twitch had appeared at the corners.
Even with his baffling black spectacles he looked a gallant figure of a man. He was precisely dressed in perfectly fitting dinner jacket and neat black tie; well-groomed from the points of his patent leather shoes to his trim crisp brown hair. And beneath this scrupulousness of attire lay the suggestion of great strength.
Marigold brought in the tray with decanter, siphon and glasses, and put them on a table, together with cigars and cigarettes, by his side.
After a few deft touches, so as to identify the objects, Boyce smiled and nodded at Marigold.
"Thanks very much, Sergeant," he said.
If there is one thing Marigold loves, it is to be addressed as "Sergeant." "Marigold" might indicate a butler, but "Sergeant" means a sergeant.
"Perhaps I might fetch the Colonel a more comfortable chair, sir," said he.
But Boyce laughed, "No, no!" and Marigold left us.
Boyce's ear listened for the click of the door. Then he turned to me.
"I was rather mean in sending you in that password. But I felt as if I should go mad if I didn't see you. You're the only man living who really knows about me. You're the only human being who can give me a helping hand. It's strange, old man--the halt leading the blind. But so it is. And Vilboek's Farm is the damned essence of the matter. I've come to you to ask you, for the love of God, to tell me what I am to do."
I guessed what had happened. "Betty Connor has told you something that I was to tell you."
"Yes," said he. "This afternoon. And in her splendid way she offered to marry me."
"What did you say?"
"I said that I would give her my answer to-morrow."
"And what will that answer be?"
"It is for you to tell me," said Boyce.
"In order to undertake such a terrible responsibility," said I, "I must know the whole truth concerning Althea Fenimore."
"I've come here to tell it to you," said he.
CHAPTER XXIII
It was to a priest rather than to a man that he made full confession of his grievous sin. He did not attempt to mitigate it or to throw upon another a share of the blame. From that attitude he did not vary a hair's breadth. Mea culpa; mea maxima culpa. That was the burthen of his avowal.