*X.*
At midnight Trevelyan stumbled blindly into the railway carriage,without a backward glance at Stewart, who had insisted on taking thelong, dark drive to the station to see him off. Once in the darknessTrevelyan had put his hand heavily on Stewart’s knee, and leaned backand stared into the blackness ahead. All that Stewart had ever been tohim—all that they had ever been to each other, swept across him.
Out there with the plague and Mackenzie, his eyes would ache for a sightof Stewart’s strong, kind face, but Stewart would not know. Out there,in the shadow of death, he would remember Stewart, and his heart wouldcry out passionately for him, but Stewart would not know. And he wouldthink of Cary—how he would think of her—of her and Stewart. He wouldthink of them together.
If he might only tell Stewart what this parting meant—that it was longerthan he dreamed—and that he was not merely seeing him off to Argyll.
But what right had he to speak? Stewart could not change his decisionnow; nor his uncle, nor his aunt, nor his father, were he home, nor allLondon, nor—Cary. They would grieve when the letters came to them, butthey would be spared the pain of parting. It was better so.
It was toward the evening of the next day when he reached home, andafter he had finished his dinner he went into the big library, walkedover to his desk and unlocked it.
"Now for it," he said briefly, and he sat down and began sorting papers,preparatory to going over them the next day with Mactier and hisbarrister, Mr. Granger, whom he had wired to come from Edinburgh andmeet him at home the next morning.
He worked far into the night, and the next day it was the same.Literally he set his house in order. Granger returned to Edinburgh onthe evening train, and Mactier received his instructions—in silence,shifting his old cap between his fingers, but not looking up to meetTrevelyan’s eyes.
Then Trevelyan had dinner. After the meal was over he tried to rest buthe could not, and he went out into the hall and began to walk up anddown—swiftly. There was no other sound in all the house but his rapidwalking. Solitude enveloped him and the home of his people. Once hestopped and looked at the armor on the wall; once he opened the frontdoor and stood on the steps staring into the night. The Pleiades werebrighter and further off he remembered, thinking afterwards, than he hadever seen them; but the rest—the stretch of winding drive and lawn andtrees lay wrapped in profound shadow and appeared unreal; only thePleiades and the beating of the surf against the crags, seemed thethings that existed.
The night air was cold and he went in and back to the library, and putanother log upon the flickering blaze, and as the wood caught firewarmed his hands with the heat. After awhile he lighted his candle andwent upstairs.
The next morning he said good-bye to the tenantry; in the afternoon hepacked his grip and the few things needed for the coming journey. Inthe evening he wrote half a dozen letters—brief notes telling his fatherand his aunt and uncle of his intended return to India. They were allworded much the same. The old spirit of restlessness was on him. Hewanted excitement. He was running out to India for a time to watchMackenzie fight the cholera. They were not to worry. He expected tohave a great time of it. His note to John was even briefer, but it wasmore serious in tone.
"DEAR OLD JOHNNY:—" it ran:
"Good-bye. I’m off for India again. You see I can’t keep away from it.I suppose it’s on the order of a man wanting to return to the scene ofhis murder.
"I’m a lucky dog, and of course I expect to return, but the plague isn’talways considerate of persons, and there’s the hundredth chance. Iexpect to come back and live at home myself. Still Granger has the will.If I don’t you’re to have the old place. You’ll come to itsometimes—hey; and have an eye on Mactier?
"I guess you were about right about my quitting the Service. I wasn’tfit.
"After all, if I hadn’t turned coward and lost my grip on myself, you’dhave been with the Highlanders at the Dargai Hill, and Cary—
"Well, that don’t excuse me. I don’t mean it as an excuse. I’ve neverbeen worth a shilling or made anything of my life, but I’ve thought alot of you—always.
"Good-bye,
"ROB."
And then Trevelyan drew forth a clean sheet of paper and stared hard atit. What was there to say to Cary!
He dipped his pen in the ink.
"My Love," he wrote, and then stopped short, and stared at the words.Then he crumpled the sheet fiercely in his fingers and flung it into thefire.
"My dear Cary," he wrote, trying again, and then he laid down his penand laughed harshly. The black letters stared back at him like smalldemons, grinning derisively.
The third time he started without a heading.
"I’ve written to the rest," it began, "and they will tell you of myplans. To you, however, I want to say something more. Now, that I amwriting, there seems little to say to you, and yet, I’m human enough—ifyou will, coward enough still—to have you, at least, know that I havenot been altogether candid with the others. I understand the danger.It is because of the danger that I am going. There’s no glory in it, andI don’t want any fuss, but there are our men in want—it’s something forthe Service. You understand—don’t you?
"I was afraid of making you sad that night on the beach if I told you,and I selfishly, too, wanted you to myself, as you always were, anduntouched by worry. I shall think of that walk with you, and themoonlight on your face, and the music—! After all, Johnny’s the onlyfellow fit for you. You don’t mind my saying so—do you?
"The sea was quiet that night—as quiet as you were, and my heart was theonly tempestuous thing on the beach; and your face, oh, Cary,—your face!
"There’s no telling, of course, but I’ve a queer notion I’m not comingback—ever any more, as we used to say as children; but the sea will goon beating against the crags here—home on the Scottish coast, andperhaps by and by you’ll be able to understand the song?
"I love you, but I don’t love you as I did. It’s the Service, first,somehow. Am I building up the broken pieces, do you suppose? It’s ajob—isn’t it?
"But my heart is breaking over this letter!
"There! I don’t want to make you sad. There’s nothing to be sad over.The tangle is just getting unsnarled; and you know there’s an end toevery thread—
"There’s a big empty space on the wall of the gallery here. If youwould _let_ Johnny hang your picture there! If you’d give him theright! And the sword—would you mind keeping my sword?
"It’s getting late. I make an early start to-morrow. I encloseMackenzie’s letter. I got it less than a week ago.
"I shall never forget you. I think that is all.
"ROBERT TREVELYAN."