“And I’ll go with you,” said Reginald Falcon.

CHAPTER XX.

“Heaven forbid!” said Phoebe.  “No, my dear, no more diamonds for us.  We never had but one, and it brought us trouble.”

“Nonsense, Phoebe,” replied Falcon; “it was not the diamond’s fault.  You know I have often wanted to go there, but you objected.  You said you were afraid some evil would befall me.  But now Solomon himself is going to the mines, let us have no more of that nonsense.  We will take our rifles and our pistols.”

“There—­there—­rifles and pistols,” cried Phoebe; “that shows.”

“And we will be there in a week; stay a month, and home with our pockets full of diamonds.”

“And find me dead of a broken heart.”

“Broken fiddlestick!  We have been parted longer than that, and yet here we are all right.”

“Ay, but the pitcher that goes too often to the well gets broke at last.  No, Reginald, now I have tasted three years’ happiness and peace of mind, I cannot go through what I used in England.  Oh, doctor! have you the heart to part man and wife, that have never been a day from each other all these years?”

“Mrs. Falcon, I would not do it for all the diamonds in Brazil.  No, Mr. Falcon, I need hardly say how charmed I should be to have your company:  but that is a pleasure I shall certainly deny myself, after what your good wife has said.  I owe her too much to cause her a single pang.”

“Doctor,” said the charming Reginald, “you are a gentleman and side with the lady.  Quite right.  It adds to my esteem, if possible.  Make your mind easy; I will go alone.  I am not a farmer.  I am dead sick of this monotonous life; and, since I am compelled to speak my mind, a little ashamed, as a gentleman, of living on my wife and her brother, and doing nothing for myself.  So I shall go to the Vaal river, and see a little life; here there’s nothing but vegetation—­and not much of that.  Not a word more, Phoebe, if you please.  I am a good, easy, affectionate husband, but I am a man, and not a child to be tied to a woman’s apron-strings, however much I may love and respect her.”

Dick put in his word:  “Since you are so independent, you can walk to the Vaal river.  I can’t spare a couple of horses.”

This hit the sybarite hard, and he cast a bitter glance of hatred at his brother-in-law, and fell into a moody silence.

But when he got Phoebe to himself, he descanted on her selfishness, Dick’s rudeness, and his own wounded dignity, till he made her quite anxious he should have his own way.  She came to Staines, with red eyes, and said, “Tell me, doctor, will there be any women up there—­to take care of you?”

“Not a petticoat in the place, I believe.  It is a very rough life; and how Falcon could think of leaving you and sweet little Tommy, and this life of health, and peace, and comfort—­”