Part 21

She checked an exclamation. “But don’t you know anything about him--his name? where he comes from? what he is like?” She was leaning forward against the table, her needle, with a long end of yellow silk drawn half-way through her work, held in her upraised hand, her whole attitude one of quivering excitement and expectancy.

The man took his pipe from his mouth deliberately, with a look of slow wonder.

“Why, Kathie, you seem quite anxious. I didn’t know you’d be so interested, my dear. Well,”--another long pull at his pipe,--“his name’s Brook--Brookfield, I think.” He paused again. “This pipe doesn’t draw well a bit; there’s something wrong with it, I shouldn’t wonder,” he added, taking it out and examining the bowl as though struck with the brilliance of the idea.

The woman opposite put down her work and clinched her hands under the table.

“Go on, John,” she said, presently, in a tense, vibrating voice; “his name is Brookfield. Well, where does he come from?”

“Straight from home, my dear, I believe.” He fumbled in his pocket, and after some time extricated a pencil, with which he began to poke the tobacco in the bowl in an ineffectual aimless fashion, becoming completely engrossed in the occupation apparently. There was another long pause. The woman went on working, or feigning to work, for her hands were trembling a good deal.

After some moments she raised her head again. “John, will you mind attending to me one moment, and answering these questions as quickly as you can?” The emphasis on the last word was so faint as to be almost as imperceptible as the touch of exasperated contempt which she could not absolutely banish from her tone.

Her husband, looking up, met her clear bright gaze, and reddened like a school-boy.

“Whereabouts ‘from home’ does he come?” she asked, in a studiedly gentle fashion.

“Well, from London, I think,” he replied, almost briskly for him, though he stammered and tripped over the words. “He’s a university chap; I used to hear he was clever; I don’t know about that, I’m sure; he used to chaff me, I remember, but--”

“Chaff you? You have met him then?”

“Yes, my dear,”--he was fast relapsing into his slow drawl again,--“that is, I went to school with him; but it’s a long time ago. Brookfield--yes, that must be his name.”

She waited a moment; then, “When is he coming?” she inquired, abruptly.

“Let me see--to-day’s--”

“Monday;” the word came swiftly between her set teeth.

“Ah, yes--Monday; well,” reflectively, “next Monday, my dear.”

Mrs. Drayton rose, and began to pace softly the narrow passage between the table and the tent wall, her hands clasped loosely behind her.

“How long have you known this?” she said, stopping abruptly. “O John, you needn’t consider; it’s quite a simple question. To-day? Yesterday?”

Her foot moved restlessly on the ground as she waited.

“I think it was the day before yesterday,” he replied.

“Then why, in heaven’s name, didn’t you tell me before?” she broke out, fiercely.

“My dear, it slipped my memory. If I’d thought you would be interested--”

“Interested!” She laughed shortly. “It is rather interesting to hear that after six months of this”--she made a quick comprehensive gesture with her hand--“one will have some one to speak to--some one. It is the hand of Providence; it comes just in time to save me from--” She checked herself abruptly.

He sat staring up at her stupidly, without a word.

“It’s all right, John,” she said, with a quick change of tone, gathering up her work quietly as she spoke. “I’m not mad--yet. You--you must get used to these little outbreaks,” she added, after a moment, smiling faintly; “and, to do me justice, I don’t often trouble you with them, do I? I’m just a little tired, or it’s the heat or--something. No--don’t touch me!” she cried, shrinking back; for he had risen slowly and was coming toward her.

She had lost command over her voice, and the shrill note of horror in it was unmistakable. The man heard it, and shrank in his turn.

“I’m so sorry, John,” she murmured, raising her great bright eyes to his face. They had not lost their goaded expression, though they were full of tears. “I’m awfully sorry; but I’m just nervous and stupid, and I can’t bear any one to touch me when I’m nervous.”

“Here’s Broomhurst, my dear! I made a mistake in his name after all, I find. I told you Brookfield, I believe, didn’t I? Well, it isn’t Brookfield, he says; it’s Broomhurst.”