He looked
puzzled, but said nothing. She lay back on the pillow, looking up at the
Southern Cross. The wind lifted her hair gently. Ghosts came over the
sea, very kindly ghosts that smiled at her and passed on.
His hand reached out to hers in the darkness.
"I say," he whispered, into her hair, "I was an ass over those damn
smokes. I'll--I'll buck up over that sort of thing in future,
Marcella--can't have two babies in the family."
Her eyes filled with tears.
"My _dear_," she whispered, and held tight to his hand.
CHAPTER XX
He went to sleep that night with the muscles of his mind tightened. He
was going to fight for his wife and child! She, judged by all he had
known of women in his select suburb among his family's friends, and in
his externing in the Borough was now a poor weak thing, to be cossetted
and cared for, worked for and protected. He felt he could move
mountains to-night--for the first time in his life he had someone weak
to care for. No more charity from his father! No more slacking, no more
giving way! He had an aim in life now. And, moreover, he had the
thrilling excitement of a "case." That he could not forget, though it
was certainly subsidiary to the feelings of pride in himself that her
imaginary weakness had brought into being.
And the "poor weak woman" lay at his side, staring at the stars with
eyes that held bigger worlds than they.
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