here at this hour?”
“Cobham might. He thinks of nothing but the launch.’”
“He won’t tonight. I told him I’d seen the skipper put her shipshape, and that satisfied him.”
“Ah—he did think of coming, then?”
“Only for a minute, when the sky looked so black half an hour ago, and he was afraid of a squall. It’s clearing now, and there’s no danger.”
He drew her down on the bench, and they sat a moment or two in silence, her hands in his. Then she said: “You’d better tell me.”
Wrayford gave a faint laugh. “Yes, I suppose I had. In fact, he asked me to.”
“He asked you to?”
“Yes.”
She uttered an exclamation of contempt. “He’s afraid!”
Wrayford made no reply, and she went on: “I’m not. Tell me everything, please.”
“Well, he’s chucked away a pretty big sum again—”
“How?”
“He says he doesn’t know. He’s been speculating, I suppose. The madness of making him your trustee!”
She drew her hands away. “You know why I did it. When we married I didn’t want to put him in the false position of the man who contributes nothing and accepts everything; I wanted people to think the money was partly his.”
“I don’t know what you’ve made people think; but you’ve been eminently successful in one respect.
“There are worse things. What was it that he wished you to tell me?”
“That you’ve got to sign another promissory note—for fifty thousand this time.”
“Is that all?”
Wrayford hesitated; then he said: “Yes—for the present.”
She sat motionless, her head bent, her hand resting passively in his.
He leaned nearer. “What did you’ mean just now, by worse things?”
She hesitated. “Haven’t you noticed that he’s been drinking a great deal lately?”
“Yes; I’ve noticed.”
They were both silent; then Wrayford broke out, with sudden vehemence: “And yet you won’t—”
“Won’t?”
“Put an end to it. Good God! Save what’s left of your life.”
She made no answer, and in the stillness the throb of the water underneath them sounded like the beat of a tormented heart.
“Isabel—” Wrayford murmured. He bent over to kiss her. “Isabel! I can’t stand it! listen—”
“No; no. I’ve thought of everything. There’s the boy—the boy’s fond of him. He’s not a bad father.”
“Except in the trifling matter of ruining his son.”
“And there’s his poor old mother. He’s a good son, at any rate; he’d never hurt her. And I know her. If I left him, she’d never take a penny of my money. What she has of her own is not enough to live on; and how could he provide for her? If I put him out of doors, I should be putting his mother out too.”
“You could arrange that—there are always ways.”
“Not for her! She’s proud. And then she believes in him. Lots of people believe in him, you know. It would kill her if she ever found out.”
Wrayford made an impatient movement. “It will kill you if you stay with him to prevent her finding out.”
She laid her other hand on his. “Not while I have you.”
“Have me? In this way?”
“In any way.”
“My poor girl—poor child!”
“Unless you grow tired—unless your patience gives out.”
He was silent, and she went on insistently: “Don’t you suppose I’ve thought of that too—foreseen it?”
“Well—and then?” he exclaimed.
“I’ve accepted that too.”
He dropped her hands with a despairing gesture. “Then, indeed, I waste my breath!”
She made no answer, and for a time they sat silent again, a little between them. At length he asked: “You’re not crying?”
