Some day, Llewellyn knew, he would meet her. She was as real as the office desk and the sanatorium had been. She existed. If he had met her during the time of his dedication he would have been forced to give her up. It would have been required of him. Could he have done it? He doubted himself. His dark lady was no Carol, no light affair born of the spring-time and a young man’s quickened senses. But that sacrifice had not been demanded of him. Now he was free. When they met… He had no doubt that they would meet. Under what circumstances, in what place, at what moment of time-all that was unknown. A stone font in a church, tongues of fire, those were the only indications he had. Yet he had the feeling that he was coming very near, that it would not be long now.
The abruptness with which the door between the book-cases opened, startled him. Wilding turned his head, rose to his feet with a gesture of surprise.
“Darling, I didn’t expect-”
She was not wearing the Spanish shawl, or the high-necked black dress. She had on something diaphanous and floating in pale mauve, and it was the colour, perhaps, that made Llewellyn feel that she brought with her the old-fashioned scent of lavender. She stopped when she saw him; her eyes, wide and slightly glazed, stared at him, expressing such a complete lack of emotion that it was almost shocking.
“Dearest, is your head better? This is Dr. Knox. My wife.”
Llewellyn came forward, took her limp hand, said formally: “I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Wilding.”
The wide stare became human; it showed, very faintly, relief. She sat in the chair that Wilding pushed forward for her and began talking rapidly, with a staccato effect.
“So you’re Dr. Knox? I’ve read about you, of course. How odd that you should come here-to the island. Why did you? I mean, what made you? People don’t usually, do they, Richard?” She half turned her head, hurried on, inconsequently:
“I mean they don’t stay in the island. They come in on boats, and go out again. Where? I’ve often wondered. They buy fruit and those silly little dolls and the straw hats they make here, and then they go back with them to the boat, and the boat sails away. Where do they go back to? Manchester? Liverpool? Chichester, perhaps, and wear a plaited straw hat to church in the cathedral. That would be funny. Things are funny. People say: ‘I don’t know whether I’m going or coming.’ My old nurse used to say it. But it’s true, isn’t it? It’s life. Is one going or comings I don’t know.”
She shook her head and suddenly laughed. She swayed a little as she sat. Llewellyn thought: ‘In a minute or two, she’ll pass out. Does he know, I wonder?’
But a quick sideways glance at Wilding decided that for him. Wilding, that experienced man of the world, had no idea. He was leaning over his wife, his face alight with love and anxiety.
“Darling, you’re feverish. You shouldn’t have got up.”
“I felt better-all those pills I took; it’s killed the pain, but it’s made me dopey.” She gave a slight, uncertain laugh, her hands pushed the pale, shining hair back from her forehead. “Don’t fuss about me, Richard. Give Dr. Knox a drink.”
“What about you? A spot of brandy? It would do you good.”
She made a quick grimace:
“No, just lime and soda for me.”
She thanked him with a smile as he brought her glass to her.
“You’ll never die of drink,” he said.
For a moment her smile stiffened.
She said:
“Who knows?”
“I know. Knox, what about you? Soft drink? Whisky?”
“Brandy and soda, if I may.”
Her eyes were on the glass as he held it.
She said suddenly: “We could go away. Shall we go away, Richard?”
“Away from the villa? From the island?”
“That’s what I meant.”
Wilding poured his own whisky, came back to stand behind her chair.
“We’ll go anywhere you please, dearest. Anywhere and at any time. To-night if you like.”
She sighed, a long, deep sigh.