As she walked towards him she replied: "You have come too late, Roger dear. It was on Christmas Eve."
"Ah welll" he shrugged. "Never mind. But Amanda and the boy— I've felt certain all along that she'd bear me a son. How are they?"
Tears welled into Cousin Margaret's eyes, and she stammered
huskily: "You ... you have a daughter, Roger. But poor Amanda...In giving birth... . She ... she is dead. We buried her yesterday."
chapter XXIII
MIDNIGHT INTERVIEW
About those words 'we buried her yesterday' there seemed an even more terrible finality than the thought of death itself. Roger stood there aghast, rigid and motionless, shaken to the roots of his being.
Amanda was such a strong, well-built young woman, and she had had hardly a day's illness in her life. He had accepted it as not uncommon for women to die in child-birth, but it had never even crossed his mind that such a fate would overtake her.
Their marriage had been no idyll. Before it both of them had been the victims of passionate love affairs that had gone awry; so neither had had the illusion that the other was the only person in the world for them. But during their long honeymoon in Italy, and the year that followed, they had come to delight more and more in one another. After a further six months, debts and restlessness had driven Roger to resume his old work for Mr. Pitt in France; so for the next two years they had been together very little and had gradually drifted apart Then after Robespierre's fall and Roger's return they had had a genuine reconciliation. He had believed himself done for good with the hazardous life he had led and ready to settle down. The peril in which they had both stood for many weeks after the taking of the Circe had drawn them still closer together, and during their seven months in Martinique they had been happier than ever before.
Unlike other women, Amanda had never made demands upon him. Her only faults had been an irritating vagueness about practical matters, and an irresponsibility about money which could at times
prove embarrassing. She had been the easiest person in the world to be with; gentle, kind, generous in thought and deed, ever ready for laughter. And now she was gone—gone for ever.
"Roger!" Madame de Kay's gentle voice impinged only faintly on his bemused brain. "I know this must be a terrible blow to you. I would have tried to break the news more gently had I had warning of your corning. I wish you could have seen her. She looked so sweet, and utterly at peace. But in this hot climate the funeral...."
"Please! Please!" He held up his hand. "I beg you say no more. I wish to be alone to think." Then he turned away and strode off to the bedroom he had shared with Amanda.
It was neat and orderly, just as he had last seen it Amanda's toilet things were laid out on the dressing-table, and. pulling open a wardrobe, he stared at the dresses which still hung there. On hearing a faint movement at the door his heart almost stopped beating. For a moment he was seized with the thought that he had just woken from an awful nightmare and that on turning he would see Amanda walk into the room; but it was Cousin Margaret, who had followed him.
She had wiped away her tears and spoke in a carefully controlled voice. "You cannot have breakfasted. You must eat to keep up your strength, my dear. Please come downstairs in a quarter of an hour. By then I will have had a meal made ready for you."
"Nay, food would choke me," he replied harshly. "I want nothing. Except, yes—please have the best spare room prepared for me at once."
"It is always kept ready for guests," she murmured. Then, feeling that at the moment any attempt to console him would be useless, she quietly withdrew.
For some ten minutes he remained fiddling dazedly with Amanda's things. Then he walked along to the big guest room and threw himself down in an arm-chair.
An hour later Dan knocked on the door, and, receiving no reply, went in. He said nothing, but his silence as he stood with bowed shoulders, just inside the door, was more eloquent of sympathy than any words could have been.
After a moment, Roger said: "Bring me some wine. Madeira. Half a dozen bottles."
Without a word Dan executed the order, uncorked one of the bottles, filled a glass, and left him.
Late m the afternoon Dan came in again, carrying a tray of food. Three of the bottles were empty and Roger was slightly glassy-eyed, but not drunk. For some inexplicable reason alcohol has little effect on some people when in a state of either great joy or great grief. He had consumed the other three bottles and was still sober when Dan came in that night but he allowed Dan to help him off with his jack boots, undressed himself and went to bed.
Next morning his cousin came to see him, but he bade her leave him in peace; then Doctor Fergusson, but he drove that pleasant young man from the room by snapping at him: "I am in no need of physics; go mind your own affairs!"
That day and the next he ate little, continued to drink but with more moderation, and sat for hours on end moodily staring into vacancy. On the fourth morning his door opened and Clarissa stood framed in it She was dressed in full black, which showed off her gold hair and milk-and-roses complexion to great advantage. In her arms she carried a bundle of muslin and lace. Behind her stood Cousin Margaret looking distinctly apprehensive.
"Roger." Clarissa addressed him with a slightly hesitant smile "I have brought your little daughter to see you."
‘Take her away," he replied coldly. "I do not wish to see her."
"But Roger!" she protested. "She is such a sweet little thing, and your own child. How can you possibly reject her when dear Amanda gave her life to give her to you?*'
"You have said it!" he roared, his blue eyes suddenly blazing. "How can you think that I would wish to look upon the thing that killed her? Be gone from here! Be gone this instant!"
After that they left him for three days to mope, and the New Year of 1796 came and went unnoticed by him. Then on January the 2nd Colonel Penruddock entered his room unannounced and said:
"Mr. Brook! Or, if as an older man and your friend you will permit me to call you so, Roger. All of us here who hold you in affection are most concerned for you. No one who knew your lady could fail to sympathize with you in your tragic loss; but however deeply you may grieve within, the outward manifestation of the sentiment does not become you when carried to such excess. You have a duty to yourself and others. I am told that you refuse to see anyone; but your post requires that you should listen to my report as Deputy Governor upon events which have occurred here during your absence. There are, too, enquiries from the Assembly, the Garrison and the Town Council, all asking when it will be convenient for you to receive deputations from them, so that they can make their duty to you on your return; and you cannot keep them waiting indefinitely. Above all, you are behaving with monstrous unkindness to Madame de Kay and Miss Marsham, in repulsing their sympathy and shutting yourself away. I pray you, for all our sakes, to play the man, and now face the world again."
Eyeing him gloomily, Roger replied: "Colonel, I appreciate the motive of your visit, but must ask that you do not repeat it. I no longer have a use for the world, and give not a damn what it thinks or does. Should I emerge I would do you little credit with these deputations. Worse, I would, mayhap, strangle with my own hands the French physician who allowed my wife to die. Then on your hands you would have a hanging. Had the Prime Minister required a continuance of my services in Europe I might not have returned here for a year or more; and for however long I was away it would have been for you to carry out my duties. This shock has rendered me incapable of attending to business, and I had not yet taken over from you; so I desire you to leave me to my misery, and carry on as though I had not returned."