It seemed to her that there was something marvellously appropriate in the punishment which was to be his, and she would not stretch out a hand to avert it. He who had made her to suffer for her constancy to him was about to suffer for his cruelty to her. Her love had brought suffering to her, and it was surely the justice of Heaven which had decreed that his new love was to mean suffering to himself.

She could not feel the least pity for him; on the contrary, she felt ready to exult over him—to laugh in his face when the blow had fallen upon him. She felt that she should like to see him crushed to the earth—overwhelmed when he fancied that his hour of triumph had come. Only this night did the desire to see him punished take possession of her. She wondered how it was that she had been so patient in the face of the wrong which he had done to her. When she had flung down and trampled on the ivory miniature of him which had stood on her table, she had wept over the fragments, and the next day she had been filled with remorse. She had seen him many times since that day, but no reproach had passed her lips, for no reproach had been in her heart. She had merely thought of him as having ceased to love her whom he had promised to love. But now when she stood alone in her room, knowing that he had not merely forsaken her but had come to love another woman, her hands clenched and her heart burned with the desire of revenge.

A few hours before, she had been shocked by his desire to be revenged upon the wretch who had killed his brother; but she did not think of this as she paced her room in the sway of that sudden passion which had come to her. She felt exultant in the thought of his coming humiliation. It was the justice of Heaven overtaking him. She would laugh in his face when the blow fell upon him.

An hour had transformed her. She had flung her patience and her forbearance to the winds. She hated herself for the folly of her fidelity all those years; but she did not think of Clare with any feeling of jealousy. On the contrary, she felt that the girl was an ally. Without Clare the man would escape all punishment; but with her as an ally he would be crushed.

She was too excited to sleep when at last she got into bed. The rush of this new, strange passion carried her along, and she experienced that positive pleasure of yielding to it, which a release from all trammels of civilisation brings for a time to most people of a healthy nature. She had in a moment been released from the strain which she had put upon herself for so tong. She felt that she was a woman at last—a woman carried along by the most natural of woman's impulses: a passion for revenge. After all, such constancy as had been hers was an agony and not a pleasure. Claude Westwood had spoken the truth: it should be taken for granted that after the lapse of a certain time the validity of a promise made in love ceased.

She told him so much the next day, when he called at The Knoll to see Clare. The girl had gone to Brackenhurst to try to obtain some materials in which she had found her store deficient—a special sort of tracing paper, the need for which Claude had told her of or the previous evening.

Agnes noticed how his face clouded when he learned that Clare was not in the house. She wondered how it was that she had never before seen signs of his new attachment. A few minutes had been sufficient to make Sir Percival acquainted with the truth. And yet it was generally assumed that in such matters women were much more sensitive than men. Could it be that the womanliness in her nature had been blunted by her unnatural constancy?

This was her sudden thought on noticing the disappointment on his face.

“You will wait for her?” she said. “She has been gone some time; she is sure to return very shortly. Brackenhurst has not so many shops as should occupy her for long.”

“Perhaps I had better wait,” said he. “I want to make a start upon the book. My shorthand writers are coming to me to-morrow.”

“They will save you a great deal of trouble, I am sure,” said Agnes. Their conversation could not be too commonplace, she thought. “You will take a seat near the fire? I am so sorry that Clare is out.”

There was a considerable pause before he said: “After all, perhaps it is as well for her to be out. The fact is, my dear Agnes, I have been wishing to—to—well, to have a chat with you alone about Clare—yes, and other matters. The present is as good an opportunity as I am likely to have.”

“What can you possibly want to say to me?” said Agnes, raising her eyebrows.

“What? Well, apart from the fact that you and I were once—nay, we are still the best of friends, I think it but right to tell you that I—I—oh, what a strange thing is Fate!”

“Is it not?” said Agnes, with a little smile. “Yes, I have often wondered that that remark was not made by some one long ago. Perhaps it was.” The note of sarcasm was scarcely perceptible in her words; and yet it seemed as if he detected it. He gave a quick glance toward her; but she looked quite serious.

“Was it not Fate that brought her here after I fancied I had seen her for the last time?” said he.

“Would it not save you a great deal of trouble—a good deal of stoic philosophy, if you were to come to the point at once and tell me that you fell in love with Clare Tristram when you were sailing down the Mediterranean with her by your side, that you were overjoyed to see her here, and that, although quite six weeks have passed, your constant heart has not changed in its affection for her? Is not that what you mean to say to me?”

“What, have I worn my heart upon my sleeve?” he said, giving a little laugh. “Have you read my secret?”

“Your secret? Do you really fancy that there is any one in this neighbourhood to whom your secret is still a secret? I'm convinced that the servants have been talking about nothing else for the past fortnight. Jevons, the butler, is too well trained to give any sign, but you may depend upon it that the housemaids nudge each other every time you call. You see, they know that you cannot possibly be calling to see me, and therefore they assume—Psha! what's the need to talk more about it? I can understand everything there is to be understood in this matter, except why you should come to tell me about it. What concern is it of mine?”

He looked at her rather reproachfully. He was not accustomed to hear her talk in such a way. She had accustomed him to gentleness and words in which there was no tone of reproach. He felt disappointed in her now.

“I felt sure that you would be at least interested in—in”—

“In—shall we call it the wondrous workings of Fate? If you think that I am not interested in Fate you are greatly mistaken.”

“I don't like to hear you talk in that strain, Agnes. It jars upon me. You were always so gracious—so sweet.”

“How do you know what I was?”

“Cannot I remember you long ago?”

“I do believe we did meet now and again before you left England. What a memory you have, to be sure!”

He rose from his chair and stood beside her.

“My dear Agnes,” he said, “I remember all the past. Were ever any two people so unfortunate as we were? I have often wondered if we were really in love with each other. I know that I, for one, fancied that we were. If all had gone well and I had returned at the end of the year I meant to spend at the Zambesi, we—well, we might have got married. But, of course, it would be absurd to fancy that, after so many years.... as I told you when I returned, we are physically different people to-day from what we were some years ago, and in affairs of the heart nature decrees that there is a Statute of Limitations. It would be cruel, as well as unjust, for a man to hold a woman to a compact made nearly nine years before—made, be it remembered, by practically a different woman with a different man. That is why I regarded you as free from every obligation to me. If you had got married after I had been absent for two years, do you fancy that I would have blamed you? Oh no; I have too strong a sense of what is just and reasonable.”

“Will you sell your book at thirty-two shillings for the two volumes?” she asked after a long pause. “I read in some paper the other day that people will pay thirty shillings for a book, if they want it, quite as readily as they will pay ten.”

He was too startled to be able to reply to her. The inconsequence of her question was certainly startling. After the lapse of a minute, however, he had sufficiently recovered himself to be able to say:

“Yes, I believe that thirty-two shillings will be the published price. Personally I cannot understand how people should want to buy the book in such numbers as will make it pay; but I suppose Shekels & Shackles are the best judges of their own business.”

He thought that, on the whole, he had reason to be satisfied at the result of their interview. He had for some days an uneasy feeling that before he could confess to Clare that he loved her, he should make a further attempt to explain to Agnes—well, whatever there was left for him to explain. He had now and again felt that it might actually be possible that she expected him to regard the compact made between them nearly nine years before, as still binding on him. This would, of course, be rather absurd on her part; but, however absurd women and their whims might be, they were capable at times of causing men a good deal of annoyance; and thus he had come to the conclusion that it would be wise for him to have a few words of reasonable explanation with her. He had great hopes that she would be amenable to reason; she had always been a sensible woman, her only lapse being in regard to this matter of fancying—if she did fancy—that in love there is no Statute of Limitations.

Now and again, however, he thought that perhaps he was doing her an injustice in attributing to her such a theory. She might, after all, look on the matter from the same standpoint as he did; still, he thought it might be as well to define as fully as he could his views in regard to their relative positions.

Well, a very few minutes had been sufficient for his purpose, and here he was, talking with a light heart about the peculiarities of the public in the matter of book-buying.

He had not exhausted this interesting topic when Clare appeared, ready to take her instructions regarding the first of the illustrations which she was to draw. He had long ago described to her so thoroughly the characteristics of several of the wild tribes among whom he had lived, she could have no difficulty in dealing with some of the scenes pictorially. He jotted down for her the particulars of the various incidents which he thought should be illustrated, and within half an hour she was hard at work.

When he called the next day he was delighted with the progress which she had made. She worked in a bold, free style which was certainly very effective, and he was unable to suggest any alteration in her pictures of the natives. So well had she remembered his instructions that she had never once confused the head-dresses of the Subaki warriors with those of the Aponakis. He told her that in the morning she would receive from one of his secretaries the type-written copy of the chapters which he had already dictated to the shorthand writers. For the remainder of the day he would be in the hands of his cartographer, for, as a matter of course, the volumes were to contain maps of those portions of the interior which he had discovered.

Agnes watched him leaning over her lovingly as she worked at one of her drawings. She watched him and smiled. She knew that the more deeply he fell in love with the girl, the greater would be the blow that he should receive when she told him that she loved another man. Only once the thought occurred to her that perhaps Clare might be carried away by constant association with him, and by the glamour of the countless newspaper articles that appeared on the subject of his work as an explorer; so when they were going upstairs that night she said:

“You made a very pretty confession to me a few days ago, my Clare.”

“A confession?”

“On the day you were visited by your friend, Signor Rodani.

“Oh!”

The girl's face had become rosy in a moment. “Does your heart remain faithful? You do not think you are likely to change?”

“Oh, never, never!” cried Clare. “I may be foolish, but if so, I must remain foolish. Ah, my dear Agnes, my confession was forced from me—I spoke on the impulse of the moment; but I was not the less certain of myself.”

“I think you are a girl to be depended on,” said Agnes. “You are not one of those whose fancies change with every new face that comes before them. Good-night, my dear child.”

She was now assured of his punishment. As she thought of the way he had come to her, smiling as he repeated that phrase which he had invented—it had become quite a favorite phrase with him—that about the Statute of Limitations in affairs of love, she felt that no punishment could be too great for him. He had talked of Fate in extenuation of his faithlessness. She had heard of people throwing all the blame that was due to themselves upon Fate. When a pretty face comes between a man and his duty he calls it Fate and yields without a struggle.

Well, he would soon find out that Fate had not yet done with him.

Two days later Clare got a letter from him asking her if she would see him immediately after lunch. He had got some technical instructions to give to her from the publishers; but he had been so closely occupied with his secretaries, he had not been able to call at The Knoll the previous day.

Immediately after lunch Agnes found it necessary to go in haste to the village; so that Clare was left alone in the room which had been turned into a studio.

When Agnes returned in a couple of hours, she found the girl, not in the studio, but in the drawingroom. The wintry twilight had almost dwindled away. The room was nearly dark. The gleam of a white handkerchief drew her eyes to the sofa, upon which Clare was lying, her face upon one of the cushions.

“Why, what on earth is the matter?” she cried. “Why are you lying there? What—tears?”

Clare sprang to her feet, touched her eyes once more with her handkerchief, and then flung it away. In another instant she was in Agnes's arms.

“Oh, my dearest,” she cried, “I am only crying because I am so happy. Never was any one so happy before since the beginning of the world. He has been here.”

“Who has been here—Mr. Westwood?”

“Of course. Who else was there to come? Who else is worth talking about in the world? He has been here, and he loves me—he loves me—he loves me! Only think of it.”

“And you sent him away?”

“Not until I had told him all that was in my heart.”

“You told him that you loved another man?”

“How could I do that? How could I tell him a falsehood? I told him that I loved him; that I had always loved him, and that it would be impossible for me to love any one else.”