Royal Amethyst/Chapter 26

are now but three more matters to speak of before I bring this story to a close. The first is of how and with what hopes and prospects I left Annalleen; the second, of what two women said to me; the third, of the fate of the man and woman who left me to one of the most terrible of deaths, and of the punishment that fell upon them.

I came back to strength with some rapidity at last, and before October was out I was beginning to feel weary and restless. My host and hostess treated me with a rare hospitality, but they had the sense to see that when I finally announced my intention of leaving them it would be no kindness on their part to attempt to detain me; so it was settled that on a certain day I should leave the scene of this strange adventure and go back to London.

I confess that until then I had scarcely thought of what was coming next; but on the eve of my departure Adare spoke of the matter to me as we sat in his smoking room.

“Hanmer,” said he, “I owe you a good deal more than anything I can ever repay, and during your illness—or, rather, since you got over the worst of it—I have been endeavoring to discharge some part of my debt to you in the only way you would allow. If you will accept it, there is a position waiting for you in South Africa which will afford you the chance of sharing in empire building there, of making a name for yourself, and of living an honorable and prosperous life. I have so arranged that all that you need do is to tell me whether you accept or decline, and then to proceed to the Cape when you feel strong enough to do so. What do you say?”

“Do you consider me fitted to this post in every way?” I asked. “I rely on you.”

“I do,” he answered.

“Then I shall accept your offer,” I said, “and I shall thank you for giving me a new start in life by doing my best to use it to full advantage.”

Thus it was that whereas I had reached Annalleen a penniless adventurer, I went away from it the holder of a position of responsibility, able to hold my chin in the air, and to feel that henceforth I should be able, God helping me, to walk without shame before my fellows.

I said good-by to Adare and his wife with little more than the usual cordiality of friends. It was understood that I should pay them a visit on my first leave home, and that they would visit me if they came to South Africa, an event which seemed very probable.

Just before I left, the princess handed to me a sealed envelope, addressed to me in her own handwriting, and bade me not to open it until I had left Ireland. Thus for some hours I carried it in my breast pocket. It was not until we were clear of Kingstown pier that I opened and read what she had written to me.

This is what she said:

And that was what one of the two women said to me, and every word came like a flash of white light.

As to what the other woman said, shall I set it down? You may be sure that if I do, I shall cheat you of the better part of it; for no man yet ever set down all the things a woman said to him in the sweetest moment of life.

This much I will say—although, until that moment, I had thought of Nancy only as a very dear friend, I had no sooner realized all that the princess's letter meant than I was suddenly so filled with love for her that I laughed aloud to think that I had never known it before, and that I could ever have dreamed that I had a thought of another. And I went to her without a thought of any woman but herself in my heart.

She was alone, and she looked at me as she gave me her hands, As I looked at her, I knew that she knew what had happened to me, and that a great wave of such gladness as only a woman can feel who knows at last that the man she loves is hers, and all hers, welled up in her heart and flooded her life.

Of what we said at that time I am not going to say anything; but later, when we came to talk of the things which are commonly called serious, there was a conversation between us of which I may speak. I had mentioned my approaching departure for South Africa, and she sat mute at my side, her eyes looking anywhere but at me. At last she turned them on me with a flash of the old spirit.

“I don't want you to go!” she cried, and stamped her foot. Then her mood changed, and her lips, close to my ear, whispered: “Unless—unless I go, too, Cosmo!”

There are times when a man needs to be made of iron. I tried hard to be strong.

“Dear,” I said, “I shall prove my love for you all the more if I make myself wait for you until I have at least shown that I am worthy of you. Listen to me, Nancy—let me go out and undergo my probation. Let me serve at least a year. After all, a year is—”

“Only a year,” she said; “but, Cosmo, what if—what if—”

“Yes?” I said, and drew her closer. “Yes?”

“What if,” she whispered, shy now as in the old days—“what if one has waited since—since always?”

It may be that some people thought we married in haste, and that the famous Selma St. Clair was a fool when she gave up her career, after five years of brilliant success, to link her fortunes with those of a poor man; but the thoughts of others have so far possessed little interest for Nancy or for me. We have been too much engrossed with new duties, too much interested in ourselves, to give much heed to outside matters or to the opinions of a world which seems very far away.

Some months after we reached Cape Town, however, there came to us a letter from Sir Desmond Adare, a certain passage in which made me forget everything for the moment. I shall quote it here in fulfillment of my promise to tell you what became of the two conspirators who left me to die in the dungeon of the old ruin: