Charles Rex Part 69

He put his hand mechanically into his pocket and took out his cigarette-case. His eyes came back out of s.p.a.ce as he did so, and rested upon the fair-haired child in the girl's arms.

"So you've come back to the old job!" he said.

Toby nodded. "Yes. Jake's doing. I'm waiting to--to--to be divorced."

He made a slight movement of surprise, but his face remained inscrutable.

"You'll have to wait some time for that," he said.

Toby tilted her chin with a reckless gesture that was somehow belied by the weariness of her eyes. "That wasn't what you came to talk about then?" she suggested after a pause.

"No." Larpent's voice had a curious, almost deprecating quality. "I came to bring you a message."

"A message!" She started slightly, and in a moment the defiance went out of her att.i.tude. She turned towards him. "Who--who is it from?"

Larpent's far-seeing eyes came gravely to meet her own. "From Rozelle Daubeni," he said.

"Ah!" A quick s.h.i.+ver went through Toby. She averted her look. "I don't want to hear it," she said.

"I've got to deliver it," said Larpent, with a hint of doggedness. "And you've got to listen. But you needn't be afraid. It isn't going to make any difference to you. The time has gone for that."

He paused, but Toby sat in silence, her face bent over Betty's fair head.

When he spoke again, his eyes had gone back to the quiet sea and the far horizon. There was a hint of pathos about him, albeit his face was grim.

"It may have surprised you to see me in Paris with her," he said. "I'm not the sort of man that runs after--that type of woman. But I went to Rozelle because she was dying, and because once--long ago--she was my wife."

A faint sound came from Toby, but still she did not speak or lift her face.

Larpent went on steadily, unemotionally. "She went wrong--ran away--while I was at sea. She was too young to be left alone. Afterwards--too late--a child was born. She told me the night before she died that the child was mine."

"Good G.o.d!" said Toby under her breath.

He went on, grimly monotonous. "I never knew of the child's existence. If I had known, it might have made a difference. But it's too late now. She wanted me to find and protect the child. I promised to do my best. And when I found her, I was to tell her one thing. Rozelle prayed for her child's forgiveness every day."

He ceased to speak, and there fell a silence, long and painful. The tide was turning, and the soft wash of tiny breakers came up the sand. Sea and sky mingled together, opalescent in the misty sunlight. The man's eyes gazed without seeing. Toby's were full of tears.

He turned at last and looked at her, then, moved by what he saw, laid an awkward hand upon her arm.

"I'm not asking anything from you," he said. "But I'd like you to know I'd have done more--if I'd known."

She threw him a quick look, choking back her tears. "It--it--it's rather funny, isn't it?" she said, with a little crack of humour in her voice.

"I'm--I'm very sorry. Captain Larpent."

"Sorry?" he said.

"For you," said Toby, with another piteous choke. "I've been foisted on to you so often. And you--you've hated it so."

"That's the tragic part of it," said Larpent.

She brushed away her tears and tried to smile. "I wonder you bothered to tell me," she said.

His hand closed almost unconsciously upon her arm. "I had to tell you,"

he said. "It's a thing you ought to know." He hesitated a moment, then concluded with obvious effort. "And I wanted to offer you my help."

"Thank you," whispered Toby. "You--you--that's very--generous of you."

She gulped again, and recovered herself. "What do you want to do about it?" she said.

"Do? Well, what can I do?" He seemed momentarily disconcerted by the question.

Toby became brisk and business-like. "Well, you don't want to retire and live in a cottage with me, do you? We shouldn't either of us like that, should we?"

"There's no question of that now," said Larpent quietly. "Your home is with your husband, not with me."

Toby flinched a little. "My home isn't anywhere then," she said. "When I left him, it was--for good."

"Why did you leave him?" said Larpent.

Toby's lips set in a firm line, and she made no answer.

Larpent waited a few moments; then: "It's no matter for my interference,"

he said. "But it seems to me you've made a mistake in one particular. You don't realize why he married you."

Toby made a small pa.s.sionate movement of protest. "He ought not to have done it," she said, in a low voice. "I ought not to have let him. I thought I could play the part. I know now I can't. And--he knows it too."

"I think you'll have to play the part," Larpent said.

"No!" She spoke with vehemence. "It's quite impossible. He has been far too good--far too generous. But it shan't go on. He's got to set me free.

If he doesn't--" she stopped abruptly.

"Well? If he doesn't?" Larpent's voice was unwontedly gentle, and there was compa.s.sion in his look.

Toby's eyes avoided his. "I'll find--a way for myself," she said almost inarticulately.

Larpent's fingers tightened again upon the thin young arm. "It's no good fighting Fate," he said. "Why has it become impossible? Just because he knows all about you? Do you suppose that--or anything else--is going to make any difference at this stage? Do you imagine he would let you go--for that?"

Toby's arm strained against him. "He'll have to," she declared stubbornly. "He doesn't know all about me either---any more than you do.

And--and--and--he's never going to know."

Her voice shook stormily. She glanced about her desperately as if in search of refuge. The child in her arms stirred and woke.

Larpent got up as if the conversation were ended. He stood for a moment irresolute, then walked across to the two little girls digging busily a few yards away.

Eileen greeted him with her usual shy courtesy. "Won't you wait a little longer?" she said. "We've very nearly finished."

"Nearly finished," echoed Molly. "Isn't it a booful big hole?"

"What's it for?" asked Larpent.

Toby's voice answered him. She had risen and followed him. It had an odd break in it--the sound of laughter that is mingled with tears. "They're digging a hole to bury me in. Isn't it a great idea?"