At table they talked of things as remote as possible from their immediate concerns, and with the usual good humour. When he rose to open the door, Hugh said–
'Drawing-room or library?'
'Library. You would like to smoke.'
For ten minutes he sat with his arms on the table, his great well-shapen hands loosely clenched before him. He drank nothing. His gaze was fixed on a dish of fruit, and widened as if in a growing perplexity. Then he recovered himself, gave a snort, and went to join his wife.
Sibyl was reading a newspaper. Hugh lit his pipe in silence, and sat down opposite to her. Presently the newspaper dropped, and Sibyl's eyes were turned upon her husband with a smile.
'Well?'
'Well?'
They smiled at each other amiably.
'What do you suggest, Birdie?'
The fondling name was not very appropriate, and had not been used of late; Carnaby hit upon it in the honeymoon days, when he said that his wife was like some little lovely bird, which he, great coarse fellow, had captured and almost feared to touch lest he should hurt it. Hugh had not much originality of thought, and less of expression.
'There are places, you know, where one lives very comfortably on very little,' said Sibyl.
'Yes; but it leads to nothing.'
'What would lead to anything?'
'Well, you see, I have capital, and some use ought to be made of it. Everybody nowadays goes in for some kind of business.'
She listened with interest, smiling, meditative.
'And a great many people come out of it—wishing they had done so before.'
'True,' said Carnaby; 'there's the difficulty. I had a letter from Dando this morning. He has got somebody to believe in his new smelting process—somebody in the City; talks of going out to Queensland shortly. Really—if I could be on the spot–'
He hesitated, timidly indicating his thoughts. Sibyl mused, and slowly shook her head.
'No; wait for reports.'
'Yes; but it's those who are in it first, you see.'
Sibyl seemed to forget the immediate subject, and to let her thoughts wander in pleasant directions. She spoke as if on a happy impulse.
'There's one place I think I should like—though I dread the voyage.'
'Where's that?'
'Honolulu.'
'What has put that into your head?'
'Oh, I have read about it. The climate is absolute perfection, and the life exquisite. How do you get there?'
'Across America, and then from San Francisco. It's anything but a cheap place, I believe.'
'Still, for a time. The thing is to get away, don't you think?'
'No doubt of that.—Honolulu—by Jove! it's an idea. I should like to see those islands myself.'
'And it isn't commonplace,' remarked Sibyl. 'One would go off with a certain eclat. Very different from starting for the Continent in the humdrum way.'
The more Carnaby thought of it, the better he liked this suggestion. That Sibyl should voluntarily propose so long a journey surprised and delighted him. The tropics were not his favourite region, and those islands of the Pacific offered no scope for profitable energy; he did not want to climb volcanoes, still less to lounge beneath bananas and breadfruit-trees, however pleasant such an escape from civilisation might seem at the first glance. A year of marriage, of idleness amid amusements, luxuries, extravagances, for which he had no taste, was bearing its natural result in masculine restiveness. His robust physique and temper, essentially combative, demanded liberty under conditions of rude or violent life. He was not likely to find a satisfying range in any mode of existence that would be shared by Sibyl. But he clutched at any chance of extensive travel. It might be necessary—it certainly would be—to make further incision into his capital, and so diminish the annual return upon which he could count for the future; but when his income had already become ludicrously inadequate, what did that matter? The years of independence were past; somehow or other, he must make money. Everybody did it nowadays, and an 'opening' would of course present itself, something would of course 'turn up'.
He stretched his limbs in a sudden vast relief.
'Bravo! The idea is excellent. Shall we sell all this stuff?' waving a hand to indicate the furniture.
'Oh, I think not. Warehouse it.'
Hugh would have rejoiced to turn every chair and table into hard cash, not only for the money's sake, but for the sense of freedom that would follow; but he agreed, as always, to whatever his wife preferred. They talked with unwonted animation. A great atlas was opened, routes were fingered; half the earth's circumference vanished in a twinkling. Sibyl, hitherto mewed within the circle of European gaieties and relaxations, all at once let her fancy fly—tasted a new luxury in experiences from which she had shrunk.
'I'll order my outfit tomorrow. Very light things, I suppose? Who could advise me about that?'
Among a number of notes and letters which she wrote next day was one to Miss Frothingham. 'Dear Alma,' it began, and it ended with 'Yours affectionately'—just as usual.
'Could you possibly come here some day this week? I haven't written before, and haven't tried to see you, because I felt sure you would rather be left alone. At the same time I feel sure that what has happened, though for a time it will sadden us both, cannot affect our friendship. I want to see you, as we are going away very soon, first of all to Honolulu. Appoint your own time; I will be here.'
By return of post came the black-edged answer, which began with 'Dearest Sibyl,' and closed with 'Ever affectionately'.
'I cannot tell you how relieved I am to get your kind letter. These dreadful days have made me ill, and one thing that increased my misery was the fear that I should never hear from you again. I should not have dared to write. How noble you are!—but then I always knew that. I cannot come tomorrow—you know why—but the next day I will be with you at three o'clock, if you don't tell me that the hour is inconvenient.'
They met at the appointed time. Mrs. Carnaby's fine sense of the becoming declared itself in dark array; her voice was tenderly subdued; the pressure of her hand, the softly lingering touch of her lips, conveyed a sympathy which perfect taste would not allow to become demonstrative. Alma could at first say nothing. The faint rose upon her cheek had vanished; her eyes were heavy, and lacked their vital gleam; her mouth, no longer mobile and provocative, trembled on the verge of sobs, pathetic, childlike. She hung her head, moved with a languid, diffident step, looked smaller and slighter, a fashionable garb of woe aiding the unhappy transformation.
'I oughtn't to have given you this trouble,' said Sibyl. 'But perhaps you would rather see me here–'
'Yes—oh yes—it was much better–'
'Sit down, dear. We won't talk of wretched things, will we? If I could have been of any use to you–'
'I was so afraid you would never–'
'Oh, you know me better than that,' broke in Mrs. Carnaby, almost with cheerfulness, her countenance already throwing off the decorous shadow, like a cloak that had served its turn. 'I hope I am neither foolish nor worldly-minded.'
'Indeed, indeed not! You are goodness itself.'
'How is Mrs. Frothingham?'
The question was asked with infinite delicacy, head and body bent forward, eyes floatingly averted.
'Really ill, I'm afraid. She has fainted several times—yesterday was unconscious for nearly half an hour.'
Sibyl