He looked at her with feverish eager wistfulness; it faded away into despair as she made no sign of having even heard his words.  He let go his hold of her, and his arm fell loosely by his side.

‘I may die,’ he said, ‘for my life is ended!’

‘Sylvia!’ spoke out Kinraid, bold and fervent, ’your marriage is no marriage.  You were tricked into it.  You are my wife, not his.  I am your husband; we plighted each other our troth.  See! here is my half of the sixpence.’

He pulled it out from his bosom, tied by a black ribbon round his neck.

‘When they stripped me and searched me in th’ French prison, I managed to keep this.  No lies can break the oath we swore to each other.  I can get your pretence of a marriage set aside.  I’m in favour with my admiral, and he’ll do a deal for me, and back me out.  Come with me; your marriage shall be set aside, and we’ll be married again, all square and above-board.  Come away.  Leave that damned fellow to repent of the trick he played an honest sailor; we’ll be true, whatever has come and gone.  Come, Sylvia.’

His arm was round her waist, and he was drawing her towards the door, his face all crimson with eagerness and hope.  Just then the baby cried.

‘Hark!’ said she, starting away from Kinraid, ’baby’s crying for me.  His child—­yes, it is his child—­I’d forgotten that—­forgotten all.  I’ll make my vow now, lest I lose mysel’ again.  I’ll never forgive yon man, nor live with him as his wife again.  All that’s done and ended.  He’s spoilt my life,—­he’s spoilt it for as long as iver I live on this earth; but neither yo’ nor him shall spoil my soul.  It goes hard wi’ me, Charley, it does indeed.  I’ll just give yo’ one kiss—­one little kiss—­and then, so help me God, I’ll niver see nor hear till—­no, not that, not that is needed—­I’ll niver see—­sure that’s enough—­I’ll never see yo’ again on this side heaven, so help me God!  I’m bound and tied, but I’ve sworn my oath to him as well as yo’:  there’s things I will do, and there’s things I won’t.  Kiss me once more.  God help me, he’s gone!’

CHAPTER XXXIV

A RECKLESS RECRUIT

She lay across a chair, her arms helplessly stretched out, her face unseen.  Every now and then a thrill ran through her body:  she was talking to herself all the time with incessant low incontinence of words.

Philip stood near her, motionless:  he did not know whether she was conscious of his presence; in fact, he knew nothing but that he and she were sundered for ever; he could only take in that one idea, and it numbed all other thought.

Once more her baby cried for the comfort she alone could give.

She rose to her feet, but staggered when she tried to walk; her glazed eyes fell upon Philip as he instinctively made a step to hold her steady.  No light came into her eyes any more than if she had looked upon a perfect stranger; not even was there the contraction of dislike.  Some other figure filled her mind, and she saw him no more than she saw the inanimate table.  That way of looking at him withered him up more than any sign of aversion would have done.