"But don't let us think of going to-day," she added. "Remember--I have
only just come back."
"And I!" said Artois. "Be merciful to an invalid, Monsieur Delarey!"
He spoke lightly, but he felt fully conscious now that his suspicion was
well founded. Maurice was uneasy, unhappy. He wanted to get away from
this peace that held no peace for him. He wanted to put something behind
him. To a man like Artois, Maurice was a boy. He might try to be subtle,
he might even be subtle--for him. But to this acute and trained observer
of the human comedy he could not for long be deceptive.
During his severe illness the mind of Artois had often been clouded, had
been dispossessed of its throne by the clamor of the body's pain. And
afterwards, when the agony passed and the fever abated, the mind had been
lulled, charmed into a stagnant state that was delicious. But now it
began to go again to its business. It began to work with the old rapidity
that had for a time been lost. And as this power came back and was felt
thoroughly, very consciously by this very conscious man, he took alarm.
What affected or threatened Delarey must affect, threaten Hermione.
Whether he were one with her or not she was one with him. The feeling of
Artois towards the woman who had shown him such noble, such unusual
friendship was exquisitely delicate and intensely strong. Unmingled with
any bodily passion, it was, or so it seemed to him, the more delicate and
strong on that account. He was a man who had an instinctive hatred of
heroics. His taste revolted from them as it revolted from violence in
literature. They seemed to him a coarseness, a crudity of the soul, and
almost inevitably linked with secret falseness. But he was conscious that
to protect from sorrow or shame the woman who had protected him in his
dark hour he would be willing to make any sacrifice. There would be no
limit to what he would be ready to do now, in this moment, for Hermione.
He knew that, and he took the alarm. Till now he had been feeling
curiosity about the change in Delarey. Now he felt the touch of fear.
Something had happened to change Maurice while Hermione had been in
Africa. He had heard, perhaps, the call of the blood. All that he had
said, and all that he had felt, on the night when he had met Maurice for
the first time in London, came back to Artois. He had prophesied, vaguely
perhaps. Had his prophecy already been fulfilled? In this great and
shining peace of nature Maurice was not at peace. And now all sense of
peace deserted Artois. Again, and fiercely now, he felt the danger of the
South, and he added to his light words some words that were not light.