But that time was coming, slowly yet very surely.  The rains were lessening at last, and the cholera-fiend had been driven forth.  Merryon was to go to the Hills on sick leave for several weeks.  Colonel Davenant had awaked to the fact that his life was a valuable one, and his admiration for Mrs. Merryon was undisguised.  He did not altogether understand her behaviour, but he was discreet enough not to seek that enlightenment which only one man in the world was ever to receive.

To that man on the night before their departure came Puck, very pale and resolute, with shining, unwavering eyes.  She knelt down before him with small hands tightly clasped.

“I’m going to say something dreadful, Billikins,” she said.

He looked at her for a moment or two in silence.

Then, “I know what you are going to say,” he said.

She shook her head.  “Oh, no, you don’t, darling.  It’s something that’ll make you frightfully angry.”

The faintest gleam of a smile crossed Merryon’s face.  “With you?” he said.

She nodded, and suddenly her eyes were brimming with tears.  “Yes, with me.”

He put his hand on her shoulder.  “I tell you, I know what it is,” he said, with a certain stubbornness.

She turned her cheek for a moment to caress the hand; then suddenly all her strength went from her.  She sank down on the floor at his feet, huddled together in a woeful heap, just as she had been on that first night when the safety-curtain had dropped behind her.

“You’ll never forgive me!” she sobbed.  “But I knew—­I knew—­I always knew!”

“Knew what, child?” He was stooping over her.  His hand, trembling still with weakness, was on her head.  “But, no, don’t tell me!” he said, and his voice was deeply tender.  “The fellow is dead, isn’t he?”

“Oh, yes, he’s dead.”  Quiveringly, between piteous sobs, she answered him.  “He—­was dying before I reached him—­that dreadful night.  He just—­had strength left—­to curse me!  And I am cursed!  I am cursed!”

She flung out her arms wildly, clasping his feet.

He stooped lower over her.  “Hush—­hush!” he said.

She did not seem to hear.  “I let you take me—­I stained your honour—­I wasn’t a free woman.  I tried to think I was; but in my heart—­I always knew—­I always knew!  I wouldn’t have your love at first—­because I knew.  And I came to you—­that monsoon night—­chiefly because—­I wanted—­when he came after me—­as I knew he would come—­to force him—­to set me—­free.”

Through bitter sobbing the confession came; in bitter sobbing it ended.

But still Merryon’s hand was on her head, still his face was bent above her, grave and sad and pitiful, the face of a strong man enduring grief.

After a little, haltingly, she spoke again.  “And I wasn’t coming back to you—­ever.  Only—­someone—­a syce—­told me you had been stricken down.  And then I had to come.  I couldn’t leave you to die.  That’s all—­that’s all!  I’m going now.  And I shan’t come back.  I’m not—­your wife.  You’re quite, quite free.  And I’ll never—­bring shame on you—­again.”