Stories by English Authors: The Orient (Selected by Scribners)

After a moment or two the song ceased; she began to move slowly, sedately; and, as if chilled by a raw breath of air, the light faded from her eyes, which she presently turned toward her husband.

“Why do you look at me?” she asked, suddenly.

“I don’t know, my dear,” he began slowly and laboriously, as was his wont. “I was thinkin’ how nice you looked – jest now – much better, you know; but somehow,” – he was taking long whiffs at his pipe, as usual, between each word, while she stood patiently waiting for him to finish, – “somehow, you alter so, my dear – you’re quite pale again, all of a minute.”

She stood listening to him, noticing against her will the more than suspicion of cockney accent and the thick drawl with which the words were uttered.

His eyes sought her face piteously. She noticed that too, and stood before him torn by conflicting emotions, pity and disgust struggling in a hand-to-hand fight within her.

“Mr. Broomhurst and I are going down by the well to sit; it’s cooler there. Won’t you come?” she said at last, gently.

He did not reply for a moment; then he turned his head aside, sharply for him.

“No, my dear, thank you; I’m comfortable enough here,” he returned, huskily.

She stood over him, hesitating a second; then moved abruptly to the table, from which she took a book.

He had risen from his seat by the time she turned to go out, and he intercepted her timorously.

“Kathie, give me a kiss before you go,” he whispered, hoarsely. “I – I don’t often bother you.”

She drew her breath in deeply as he put his arms clumsily about her; but she stood still, and he kissed her on the forehead, and touched the little wavy curls that strayed across it gently with his big, trembling fingers.

When he released her, she moved at once impetuously to the open doorway. On the threshold she hesitated, paused a moment irresolutely, and then turned back.

“Shall I – does your pipe want filling, John?” she asked, softly.

“No, thank you, my dear.”

“Would you like me to stay, read to you, or anything?”

He looked up at her wistfully. “N-no, thank you; I’m not much of a reader, you know, my dear – somehow.”

She hated herself for knowing that there would be a “my dear,” probably a “somehow,” in his reply, and despised herself for the sense of irritated impatience she felt by anticipation, even before the words were uttered.

There was a moment’s hesitating silence, broken by the sound of quick, firm footsteps without. Broomhurst paused at the entrance, and looked into the tent.

“Aren’t you coming, Drayton?” he asked, looking first at Drayton’s wife and then swiftly putting in his name with a scarcely perceptible pause. “Too lazy? But you, Mrs. Drayton?”

“Yes, I’m coming,” she said.

They left the tent together, and walked some few steps in silence.

Broomhurst shot a quick glance at his companion’s face.

“Anything wrong?” he asked, presently.

Though the words were ordinary enough, the voice in which they were spoken was in some subtle fashion a different voice from that in which he had talked to her nearly two months ago, though it would have required a keen sense of nice shades in sound to have detected the change.

Mrs. Drayton’s sense of niceties in sound was particularly keen, but she answered quietly, “Nothing, thank you.”

They did not speak again till the trees round the stone well were reached.

Broomhurst arranged their seats comfortably beside it.

“Are we going to read or talk?” he asked, looking up at her from his lower place.

“Well, we generally talk most when we arrange to read; so shall we agree to talk to-day for a change, by way of getting some reading done?” she rejoined, smiling. “You begin.”

Broomhurst seemed in no hurry to avail himself of the permission; he was apparently engrossed in watching the flecks of sunshine on Mrs. Drayton’s white dress. The whirring of insects, and the creaking of a Persian wheel somewhere in the neighbourhood, filtered through the hot silence.

Mrs. Drayton laughed after a few minutes; there was a touch of embarrassment in the sound.

“The new plan doesn’t answer. Suppose you read, as usual, and let me interrupt, also as usual, after the first two lines.”

He opened the book obediently, but turned the pages at random.

She watched him for a moment, and then bent a little forward toward him.

“It is my turn now,” she said, suddenly; “is anything wrong?”

He raised his head, and their eyes met. There was a pause. “I will be more honest than you,” he returned; “yes, there is.”

“What?”

“I’ve had orders to move on.”

She drew back, and her lips whitened, though she kept them steady.

“When do you go?”

“On Wednesday.”

There was silence again; the man still kept his eyes on her face.

The whirring of the insects and the creaking of the wheel had suddenly grown so strangely loud and insistent that it was in a half-dazed fashion she at length heard her name – “Kathleen!”

“Kathleen!” he whispered again, hoarsely.

She looked him full in the face, and once more their eyes met in a long, grave gaze.

The man’s face flushed, and he half rose from his seat with an impetuous movement; but Kathleen stopped him with a glance.

“Will you go and fetch my work? I left it in the tent,” she said, speaking very clearly and distinctly; “and then will you go on reading? I will find the place while you are gone.”

She took the book from his hand, and he rose and stood before her.

There was a mute appeal in his silence, and she raised her head slowly.