All night the rain beat down steadily, drenching the waterlogged countryside and turning the usually gentle drift of the river to a boiling race, the roar of which penetrated even the thick walls of Silverings. With the dawn, the Silvering Sails rocked uneasily in her small inlet, protected to some extent from the mainstream, but occasionally caught by a surge of the waters so that she strained at the ropes securing her. One might have supposed that the man who had toiled for so many hours refurbishing the vessel would evince some concern at this sight, for the river became more littered with mud and debris, the safety of the inlet more threatened, with every hour that passed. In point of fact, however, Justin Strand, seated in the windowseat, his back against the walls, his legs across the length of the cushions, saw neither storm, river, nor boat. Wherever he looked, even if he closed his eyes, three faces haunted him: the white, still features of Jeremy Bolster, poor little Amanda’s stricken expression, and the scornful countenance of the girl he had worshipped and wed, and who had so carelessly betrayed him. All the way back to Sussex he had been able to think of nothing else. Throughout the hours of darkness he had paced the floor, racked with guilt and fear for Bolster, and scourged by the knowledge that Lisette, denied the love of the man to whom she had given her heart, knowing how deep was the devotion offered by her husband, had still rejected him, choosing to take his best friend for her lover.
He ran a distracted hand through his rumpled hair, reminded that he had come within a hair’s-breadth of calling out Leith—a mistake that would surely have broken Rachel’s heart. There were levels to tragedy, he acknowledged; for instance, his personal grief was intensified because it had been Bolster who betrayed him. Bolster, whom he’d always held to be the very soul of honour, and totally above such base treachery. Yet, even so, he had not intended to—
A hand touched his shoulder gently. A troubled voice asked, “Sir! Be ye all right? It do be almighty hot in here, so hot as a furnace, yet ye be a-shivering and a-shaking like any aspen tree!”
Strand looked with a smile into Best’s honest eyes. “I’m afraid I may have contracted a cold.”
“Ar,” said Best, uneasily. “Well, I do wish as how Mr. Green would come.”
Until they reached here last evening, Strand had quite forgotten that he’d left instructions for his valet to return to the Hall. He had sent the other groom off at once, with instructions that Green was to come down to Silverings, but after the heavy rains of the night, it was quite possible that the roads were flooded. “I’m sure he will get here as soon as he can,” he said. “Are the horses dry?”
The stable roof, Best admitted, was beginning to drip in a few places, and he was in fact going down there now, to see if he could make some temporary repairs. “It do be a great pity,” he added with a reproachful glance at his employer, “as that fancy French cook bean’t here, seein’s young Johnny bean’t able to have come back in time to do the job.”
The image of the lofty René condescending to look at the stable roof, much less soil his talented hands upon it, brought a gleam to Strand’s tired eyes. “Then let us hope,” he said bracingly, “that young Johnny returns with Mr. Green. Meanwhile, do you need help, let me know.”
Best grunted. The last person he would ask for help, he thought, was a man who looked fair wrung out. But he said nothing, and went clumping off to the stables.
Left alone, Strand gave himself a mental shake. All this brooding was achieving nothing. To have left the scene of the duel without first determining the condition of his victim had been reprehensible. But very likely Bolster was not dead at all and would make a full recovery. The thing to do now was to come to some decision regarding his marriage. It was very obvious that Lisette did not want— His gaze having returned to the rain-streaked window, he was much shocked to see the Silvering Sails drifting erratically, secured by only the bow line. If she once got into the mainstream of the littered river, she’d have little chance, and Norman would be heartbroken was she sunk! He sprang up hurriedly, only to reel to the wall and lean there, fighting a sick dizziness. The apprehension seized him that this was not a cold that plagued him, but a recurrence of that abominable fever. He rejected the notion at once. It could not be! Not this soon! He’d had little sleep last night and that, coupled with the chill he’d taken on the boat, had not helped matters. His head soon cleared, and he went over to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of cognac. The potent liquor burned through him, and he began to feel more the thing. Lord, he thought, as he hastened upstairs to get his greatcoat, how Green would rail at him if he should fall ill! He’d never hear the end of it!
The door to his bedchamber was slightly open. Brutus was comfortably disposed in the armchair and his master’s new four-caped coat had been fashioned into a burial ground from beneath which peeped the remains of a bone. Exasperated, Strand retrieved his coat while advising the animal in pithy terms of his probable ancestry. Brutus was sufficiently interested as to yawn, raise his head and watch the proceedings. Deciding a walk was in the offing, he sprang down and collected his property before accompanying Strand to the stairs with much enthusiastic, if muffled, yelping.
Outside, the wind was approaching gale proportions. Strand fully expected his canine companion to bolt back into the house when he saw the trees whipping about. Apparently, there was not an aspen in sight, however, and neither the sight of drifts being blown across the lawns nor the trees bending before the gale caused the animal to become alarmed.
“I collect,” remarked Strand cynically, “that you are very discriminating as to what may cause your intellect—what there is of it—to become disordered! Come along, then. But be warned that I’ve no least intention of jumping in after you, should you fall in!”
Undaunted, Brutus trundled ahead, tracking down and attending to several enticing distractions along their route until, a likely depository for the bone presenting itself, he proceeded to excavate the middle of a flower bed.
Lost in thought and unaware of these depredations, Strand made his rapid way to the dock. The Silvering Sails rocked and pitched at the end of her solitary rope, masts swaying and boards creaking. The aft mooring rope trailed over the side, and must be secured if she was to have any chance of riding out the storm. Strand waited his chance, then sprang nimbly aboard. The erratic motion of the vessel slowed him, but clinging to the rail he staggered aft and began to haul in the rope. The rain was a steady, soaking drizzle, and the wind so strong that at times it buffeted his breath away. It was not an icy wind, but his teeth began to chatter, and the headache which had plagued him for the past two days was becoming more intense. The boat pitched violently, and unable to hold his balance, he swayed to his knees, swearing lustily.
Only the fall saved him. A boathook whizzed past, missing his head so narrowly that it ruffled his hair before it smashed against the rail. Beyond it, James Garvey’s face loomed, contorted and dark with hatred. With a bound, Strand regained his feet, barely avoiding a second fierce lunge of the boathook. That Garvey meant murder was very apparent. A pistol would have been swifter and surer, but also, he realized, would both attract attention and rule out the possibility of accidental death.
“Maniac!” he shouted, edging back and from the corner of his eye searching for something to use as a weapon. “Do you want to hang?”
“I want you dead! I want your wife, to whom you have no right! Never fear—I’ll not hang!” And on the last word, Garvey sprang forward, the boathook flailing in a mighty sweep. Strand had to leap for his life. He eluded that murderous attack, but landed on a coiled length of rope, and fell heavily. With a triumphant shout, Garvey drove the boathook downward. Strand rolled desperately, and the iron hook ripped through the back of his jacket and slammed into the deck. Snatching up the rope, Strand flung it at Garvey’s face. Garvey jerked back, slipped on the wet deck, and staggered, fighting to retain his balance as the boat yawed drunkenly. He recovered almost immediately, but Strand had seized the opportunity to jump up and grab a belaying pin. It was only half the length of the boathook, but he swung around, gripping it in both hands, just in time to block the shattering blow Garvey had launched at him.
Again and again, driven by hatred and avarice, Garvey attacked. Again and again, Strand deflected his blows, but he also battled fever and the disadvantage of an inferior weapon, and he was driven back relentlessly until he was at the stern. The roar of the river filled his ears, and as the Silvering Sails swung straight out from the dock, the littered swell of the mainstream was terrifyingly close. If he fell there could be no survival; the strongest swimmer could not prevail against that furious boil of mud and debris. His arms were aching from the shocks of Garvey’s maddened onslaught, and his vision began to blur. As he blocked another attack, Garvey’s form drifted in twain. Two murderous assailants faced him; two boathooks hurtled at his head. Dazed and uncertain, he peered through a thickening mist from which a harsh laugh sounded triumphantly. The splintered boathook flashed down and Strand was able to deflect it only partially. He felt a mighty shock, a blinding wave of pain, and the deck flew up to meet him.
Vaguely, he knew that he was lying prone, his cheek against the blessed coolness of wet boards. Crimson stained those boards. He blinked at it and was shocked by the knowledge that it was his own blood. His head pained so savagely that he felt sick but, stronger than pain, the instinct for survival demanded that he get up, for to lie here was death. He strove feebly to lift himself, but his head whirled and his bones were sand, and he could only get an elbow under him. Gleaming, tasseled Hessians were very near, and yet not advancing. Puzzled, Strand heard a strange new sound.
“Nice doggie…” said Mr. Garvey, placatingly.
Blinking, Strand perceived Brutus a few paces distant. A transformed Brutus, who was the very epitome of canine savagery. Below his upcurling lip protruded long, gleaming fangs; the hair across his broad shoulders stood straight on end, and from deep within that powerful chest rose a rumbling growl calculated to give pause to any man.
His boathook at the ready, Garvey coaxed, “Here, boy…” He held out one hand, tightening his grip on the boathook with the other, but when Brutus’s jaws snapped only inches from his fingertips, Mr. Garvey forgot the boathook and jumped backwards.
The wind flung his coat wide, and the ends fluttered. Brutus quailed, howled, raced for the fallen coils of rope, dug his head under them, and crouched, shivering.
Garvey gave a shout of laughter. “A fine champion, Strand!” he gloated, and with both hands, swung the boathook high.
Brutus might not have earned the right to be dubbed “a fine champion,” but his intervention had given Strand the chance to catch his breath. Mustering all his wiry strength, he leapt to his feet. The belaying pin was within easy reach, but he disdained it; only his bare fists would do for this task. He was very fast; his right rammed in hard under Garvey’s ribs. The boathook fell from suddenly nerveless hands. Garvey’s face purpled as he doubled up. Strand straightened him out with a left uppercut that lifted Mr. James Garvey to the toes of his fine Hessians, and caused him to sink downward with all the grace of a sack of potatoes.
Swaying drunkenly, looking down at his vanquished foe, Strand heard a shout. His head weighed a ton, but he raised it slowly. Best and Oliver Green were running along the deck towards him.
“Take this … carrion,” he said faintly, “and—lock it up. Tried to … to…” And sighing, he crumpled to the deck.
* * *
Despite the fact that they had left Croydon at first light that morning, the condition of the roads was such that it was late afternoon before Lisette’s carriage approached Silverings, and her coachman advised the groom that not only was it a miracle they had arrived, but they would be marooned here, that was certain, for there wasn’t no way to go back up them roads till the water drained away. Silverings’ ruins looked forlorn and sad under the lowering skies, but from the mullioned windows of the old house came the warm glow of candlelight. The Dutch door swung open, and Oliver Green came out and started towards them. Lisette drew a deep breath of relief and, beside her, Norman shouted, “Hurrah! You guessed rightly, Lisette! Strand is here!”
Their joy, however, was short-lived. Running to meet the carriage, heedless of the rain, the valet had no welcoming smile, his broad features instead reflecting a deep anxiety.
Norman had the door open and the steps let down almost before the carriage stopped and, springing out, reached up to hand down Lisette.
“Thank God you’ve come, ma’am!” said Green. “We’ve had trouble here.”
A hand of ice clutched Lisette’s heart. She faltered, “My husband?”
“I’m afraid the master is—is very bad, ma’am.”
She whitened and began to run to the house, the man keeping pace with her and Norman demanding with a rather surprising air of authority to know if James Garvey had been at Silverings.
“He has, sir,” said Green, swinging the door wider for Lisette to pass. “And tried to kill Mr. Strand.”
Lisette put back her hood. “I heard Dr. Bellows has returned from Wales. Has someone gone to fetch him?”
“Best will bring the midwife from the village, can he get through. He would have no chance of reaching Dr. Bellows, not in this storm.”
“The devil!” Norman exploded, helping Lisette take off her cloak. “Where is the beastly rogue? Did he get away? We came hoping to warn my brother—is he shot?”
“The master was struck on the head. He managed to overpower Mr. Garvey, Lord knows how! Best has taken Mr. Garvey to the village constable.”
Lisette was already running upstairs. The door to the front bedroom was partially open, and she could hear someone talking inside. She pushed the door wider and went in, then stopped, her heart twisting. Strand lay in the big bed. A bandage was taped to his forehead, and he was muttering to himself. He was very pale, but his eyes were open, and she felt an almost overpowering surge of relief to find him conscious. Approaching the bed, she said softly, “Justin?”
He turned to look up at her, his eyes unnaturally bright. “You know I did not mean to kill you!” he muttered fretfully. “Didn’t mean it, Jerry…” And in a sudden burst of rage, “Traitor! Filthy damned traitor!”
With a gasp of fright, Lisette drew back. Behind her, Green said gently, “Perhaps you should wait downstairs, ma’am. Mr. Justin doesn’t know what he’s saying. When he is like this—” He shrugged helplessly.
For answer, she began to strip off her gloves, but made no move to leave. Strand’s ravings had faded to that unintelligible mumbling. He looked so ill; so terribly ill. The fear in her heart deepened. She handed the valet her gloves and asked, “Green, what did Mr. Garvey hit him with?”
“I could not say, ma’am. But I rather doubt it is the head wound we have to fear, for that does not look to be more than a bump and a nasty cut.”
Norman, who had halted just inside the door, now came up to the bed, saying in a low voice, “My grandmama told me Strand contracted some kind of fever whilst he was in India. Is that the trouble?”
Lisette threw her brother a shocked look. The valet nodded and, speaking softly also, answered, “It is called malaria, sir.”
For a moment, Lisette could not breathe. The room seemed to close in upon her, and she reached out gropingly. At once, Norman’s arm was around her. “No vapours from you, m’dear, surely?” he asked, and as her terrified eyes lifted to meet his, he added with a lightness he was far from feeling, “Strand’s all steel—do you not know that yet?” He glanced to the valet. “How frequent are the attacks?”
“Not so frequent since we come home, sir. I’d hoped we might have seen the last of it, but—” He broke off, biting his lip, then blurted out, “Well, he pushes himself so. He should never have worked on the boat in the rain the other day. And then—to drive all the way to Berkshire, and knowing he was feeling unwell—but there was no stopping him!”
Lisette turned her face against her brother’s shoulder, and Green went on hurriedly, “You know something of the malady, sir?”
“We’d a cousin who contracted malaria in South America, but—” Norman closed his lips over the rest of that sentence. A faint whimper emanated from Lisette, and the valet looked aghast.
The sick man moaned and began to toss restlessly. Recovering her wits, Lisette moved to rest one cool hand on his brow. Dismayed, she looked up at Green, who stood watching, her cloak and gloves clutched to his bosom. “He is on fire!” she whispered. “Is this an unusually bad attack?”
“He’ll pick up once Best comes with the midwife,” he evaded. But, seeing how frantically those great dark eyes searched his face, he could not deceive her and admitted sadly, “I have never seen the master become so very ill quite this fast before, ma’am.” He looked down at Strand, his own eyes clouding. “I’d give everything I have, if—if only—”
“Good God!” said Norman indignantly. “He ain’t dead yet! Don’t you turn into a watering pot, Green!”
Green’s answering smile was bright, if rather lopsided.
Trembling and stricken, Lisette rallied her forces. With a calm that astounded both men, she said, “Norman, please bring me a bowl of water and a cloth, and ask Denise for my lavender cologne. And she will have to prepare some barley water or lemonade for Justin. I’m afraid I must ask you to see what you can do about dinner, Green.”
He regarded her uneasily. “Gladly, ma’am. But perhaps I should stay with the master. When he becomes violent it’s all I can do to hold him. And you’ve had a long journey. You should rest.”
“No.” Her chin went up. “My place is beside my husband. If he becomes violent we shall just have to tie him down. Hurry, please.”
They both left. Drawing up the chair from the writing table, Lisette sat close beside the bed and leaned over to gently stroke back the tumbled fair hair. Strand’s head tossed, and he stared at her without recognition. To see his forceful vitality reduced to this total helplessness was shattering. She blinked tears away and prayed, “Please God, let the midwife come quickly.”
The afternoon slipped away, however, and Best did not come. When darkness fell, the steady beat of the rain increased until it was a driving downpour, while the wind became ever more forceful, the gusts rattling the windows and sending smoke puffing down the chimneys. By nine o’clock Lisette was forced to accept the fact that the roads must be totally impassable, and that whatever was to be done for the sick man would only be achieved by those already gathered in what was left of the old house.
The battle that followed was one she would never be able to forget. Strand’s fever seemed to mount hourly, his outbursts of delirium accompanied by wild thrashing and attempts to get out of bed that sometimes required both Norman and Green to hold him, the threat that he would severely overtax his strength terrifying Lisette. Soon after two o’clock, he fell into a motionless silence that petrified them all, but by the expedient of holding a small mirror to his lips, Green discovered he was still breathing.
“Must be exhausted, poor devil,” said Norman, himself owly-eyed from the combined effects of the long journey and this ghastly night. “Come, Lisette, to your bed. I’ll wake Denise and she can watch Justin for a while.”
The respite was brief. Barely an hour later, the abigail shook Lisette awake, sobbing that the master was raving and she must come at once. She found Strand sitting up, Green’s arms wrapped about him, while the sick man again fought his duel with Bolster, shouting anguished curses because of his friend’s duplicity. Running to him, Lisette soothed, “It is all right now, dearest. I’m here with you. Lie back, Justin. Please, dear, lie back.”
For a moment there was no change. Then he sank down, and she sat beside him once more, bathing his face gently. She glanced up to find Green waiting, his drawn features filled with an expression of despair. “Green,” she whispered, “I am so afraid. Is there nothing—no medicine we can give him?”
He wrung his hands. “Mrs. Rousell—the midwife, ma’am—has some. Dr. Bellows left it with her the last time Mr. Justin was taken ill. It is made from the bark of a tree.” He knit his brow. “Something ‘ona.’ Brincona, or Vincona … oh! Cinchona, that’s it! They call it quinine. Dr. Bellows told Miss Charity it would mean the difference between life and death for Mr. Justin was he to suffer another attack. If only Mrs. Rousell would come!”
Neither of them had heard the door open softly. Norman stood with his hand on the latch, listening to them. His eyes were on Strand, still now, save for the endless plucking of his long nervous fingers at the eiderdown. It was devilish, the boy thought miserably, that in so short a space of time one could become so attached to a man that should he die the hole left in one’s life would be unthinkable. And what it would do to Lisette…! As quietly as he had come, he closed the door.
In the sickroom, hour succeeded weary hour. Sometimes Strand was quiet for a long interval, sometimes he tossed and moaned, crying out half-finished sentences in English or Tamil, or striving to sit up, fighting Green’s efforts to restrain him. But always, running through his delirium like a continuing thread was one name, and whether it was whispered or shouted, the tone was always the same—a yearning disillusionment that wrung the hearts of those who heard him: “Lisette … Lisette…”
By dawn he was perceptibly weaker, his eyes still holding the feverish glitter, but his movements less violent, and his voice almost inaudible. Green, who had slept for several hours in the chair beside the fireplace, awoke to find Lisette holding a glass of barley water to her husband’s cracked lips, while Denise propped his shoulders. Coming swiftly to aid them, the valet murmured, “Mrs. Strand, you must get some rest. We’ll have you ill yourself if you keep on like this. We should take turns. Perhaps, if Mr. Norman could sit with him now…?”
“He is gone,” vouchsafed Denise. “He leave the note for madame. He have to the village go to try and find the medicine for monsieur.”
Her heart warmed, Lisette thought that the rain seemed a little lighter, and the wind was definitely less furious than yesterday’s gale. If anyone could get through, it was Norman. Once the boy set his mind to something, he was just as doggedly determined as was her husband. She looked down at Strand, and his face seemed to ripple before her eyes. Capitulating, she stumbled to her bed, murmuring a demand to Denise that she be awakened if there was the slightest change in her husband’s condition, but falling asleep before she could complete her sentence.
When she returned to the sickroom shortly after noon, she found an unexpected change. Strand was now as cold as he had been hot yesterday. He lay there shivering convulsively, his teeth chattering. She thought at first that he was rational, but when she approached, he sat up, shouting, “Do not … walk on the carpet! Are you addled? Got to … get new … carpet!” She eased him down on his pillows and took up his hand and he turned blurred blue eyes to gaze at her. “Must let her go,” he muttered between shudders. “Have to—let her go … only decent thing…”
And their battle began all over again. She did what she might to keep him warm, prayed for Norman’s return, and talked gently to the sick man whenever it seemed that he might hear her.
At three o’clock Green came upstairs. He had shaved and changed his rumpled clothes, and he looked refreshed. He brought with him a tray, which he placed on the table by the windows, and proceeded to pour a cup of coffee, the aroma drawing Lisette despite her initial avowal that she did not want anything. She was, she found, ravenous, and eating toast and marmalade while she kept one eye on Strand, she asked in the low tone they all employed in the sickroom, “Will the medicine the doctor left still be potent, do you suppose? How long ago was it that my husband suffered an attack?”
Green hesitated a moment, then, pouring more coffee into her cup, said, “Why, it was when you first were wed, ma’am. Mr. Justin knew he was ill before the ceremony. I begged him to delay, but he would not.”
Incredulous, Lisette gasped, “He—he was ill? But I thought— Oh! Why on earth did he not tell me?”
“He’ll have my ears for telling you now, ma’am,” Green sighed. “The thing is—well, I’ve been with him these four years, and—and I—”
“You love him,” she nodded gravely. “I am well aware.”
He reddened. “Why, he took me up, ma’am, when no one else would. God knows what would have become of me, else. I’d been cast off without a character by a very powerful gentleman high up in the East India Company, because I’d chanced to see him in—well, doing something he’d no business doing. Mr. Justin risked the ruination of everything he’d half killed himself to build up when he hired me. But he did it and earned the respect of a lot of gentlemen who had cause to dislike my former master. Still, it was a dreadful chance he took; you’d know how very dreadful if you knew how he longed to come home. The climate didn’t suit him, and every day he was breaking his heart for England. I’ll never forget it, ma’am. And that’s why I—I suppose I take an interest in—in anything having to do with him.”
Lisette smiled. “I understand, and indeed am grateful for your loyalty. But what I cannot understand is, why he did not postpone the ceremony. I remember noticing how hot his hand was when he put the ring on my finger, but—” She remembered also the interpretation she had placed on his heated touch, and on the glitter in his eyes, and she felt sick and ashamed and was silent.
“If you will forgive me for speaking plain,” Green said hesitantly, “Mr. Justin dared not postpone the wedding. Oh, he never spoke of it to me, but I knew, because Lord Bolster kept at him to change the date, and one day he rounded on him, and said it was more than he dare do. Mr. Garvey was courting you also, and the master was deadly afraid of losing you. Afterwards, well, you see how it is when the fever really has him in its grip. He couldn’t bear you to see him like this—and on your wedding night.” He looked at her pleadingly. “You can scarcely blame him, ma’am.”
A soaring joy was lifting Lisette’s heavy heart. She said, “So he came down here, and this—Mrs. Rousell nursed him?”
“No, ma’am. Mostly, it was Miss Charity.”
“Miss Charity?” Lisette gave a rather hysterical little trill of laughter, and Green stared his astonishment. “Charity!” she exclaimed again. So the blond paramour she had so resented all this while did not even exist! Strand had left her, not because he loved another woman, but because he did not wish her to see him racked by this dreadful fever. “Oh!” she said in a half-sob, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Oh! If only I had—”
“Oliver…? Are you here? Is—is anyone here…?”
Fighting the impulse to run to the bed in response to that feeble call, Lisette rose and went swiftly to bend over the invalid. “Hello, my dear tyrant,” she said gently. “Are you—”
She had quite forgotten the circumstances under which they had parted, and was shocked to see his eyes widen in horror. “No!” Strand gasped. “No! Go away from me! I do not want you here! No!”
Sinking to her knees beside the bed, she implored, “Stop! Justin, I beg you—it was all a ruse, my darling. Garvey planned it, hoping you would call out Tristram. Dearest, please listen to me! I went to see Charity and Rachel, it is not what you—”
But it was useless. As rapid had been his return to normalcy was his relapse into delirium. This time, however, his frenzied ravings swiftly grew feebler, his strength so obviously failing that Lisette was distracted with fear and scarcely dared leave his side for a moment without dreading what she might find upon her return. She prayed as she had never prayed in her life that Norman would come, but the hours crept past, and the afternoon was waning when at length Strand’s faint voice again asked lucidly, “Are you still here … Lisette?”
She had been sitting close beside the bed, a hand over her eyes, and at once, fearful of the possible response, said timidly, “Yes, Justin. I am here.”
He peered at her uncertainly. “Did—did I dream…? You said—Garvey…?”
With a muffled sob, she knelt and, nursing his hand to her cheek, said a tremulous, “Yes. Oh, yes. Justin, I did not betray you. My dearest, I never shall.”
He smiled in a faint shadow of his mischievous grin. “You are … very kind. And—and I’m glad you— Jeremy!” The sunken eyes opened wide. “Is Bolster dead?”
“No. Very much alive. And with Amanda’s promise to wed him. You did not shoot him, love. It was Garvey. Beatrice told us.”
He sighed, “Now, thank God!” and closed his eyes wearily, but after a moment peered at her again. With an ineffably tender smile, he whispered, “I think, my dear … that you will not be burdened … with your tyrannical husband, much … longer. I wish you would kiss me … just one last—”
“No!” With a wail of anguish she leapt up. “You shall not! Not now!” She climbed onto the bed and lay down beside him, sliding an arm beneath his shoulders, totally uncaring that Green, tears streaking his cheeks, stood by the fire as if rooted to the spot. “You are not trying to live!” she accused fiercely. “Wretched, wretched man! I will not let you leave me!” She turned his pale, surprised face towards her and began to kiss his brow, his lean cheeks, his eyelids, between kisses whispering she knew not what terms of endearment and pledges of devotion, interspersed with scolding and demands that he make an effort to cling to life, for her sake. How long she held him thus, how much she said, she could not afterwards have told, but when Norman crept in later, the precious medicine bottle clutched in his hand, he found them both asleep, Strand’s head cradled on his wife’s shoulder, her cheek against his tumbled hair, her arms fast about him.