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Updated: May 25, 2025
"Tell me why," Babbacombe persisted. "Why should I tell you?" said West. Babbacombe hesitated for an instant; then gravely, kindly, he made reply: "For the sake of the friendship that has been between us. I had not the faintest idea that you were in need of money. Why couldn't you tell me?" West made a restless movement. For the first time his hard stare shifted from Babbacombe's face.
But, of course, I would do it anonymously. And he thinks his friend is a man." Babbacombe pondered with drawn brows. "Cynthia," he said slowly, at length, "suppose I take this matter into my own hands, suppose I make it possible for you to see this man once more, will you be guided entirely by me?
I was a brainless, chattering fool! And I'm not much better now, I often think." Cynthia's hand went up to her eyes. The vision in the fire was all blurred and indistinct. Babbacombe was leaning forward, listening intently. The firelight flickered on his face, showing it very grave and still. He did not attempt to speak.
Her lips were quivering too much for speech. Babbacombe drove slowly on in silence. At last the hand upon his knee pressed slightly. "You can have her if you like, Jack," Cynthia murmured. "She's going mighty cheap." He freed his hand for a moment to grasp hers. "I shall follow her to London," he said, "and woo her there." She smiled at him gratefully and began to speak of other things.
Babbacombe watched her with a dumb longing. How often he had pictured her as hostess where now she moved as guest! Well, that dream of his was shattered, but the glowing fragments yet burned in his secret heart. All his life long he would remember her as he saw her that night on his own hearth. Her loveliness was like a flower wide open to the sun.
Babbacombe exclaimed, aghast. "It is absolutely imperative," the doctor said, "to get at the seat of the poison. I am making every effort to prevent the mischief spreading any further. Should the operation fail, no power on earth will save her hand. It may mean the arm as well." Babbacombe listened to further explanations, sick at heart. "When do you propose to move her?" he asked presently.
Babbacombe said something inarticulate that resolved itself with an effort into: "Have you told her?" "Yes, I have." The doctor's voice was stern. "And she absolutely refuses to consent to it. I have given her till to-morrow morning to make up her mind. After that " He paused a moment, and looked Babbacombe straight in the face. "After that," he said, with emphasis, "it will be too late."
When he spoke at length his speech, though curt, was not so rigorously emotionless as usual. "Don't you think," he said, "that you have carried this tomfoolery of yours far enough?" Babbacombe raised one eyebrow. "Meaning?" he questioned. West enlightened him with most unusual vigour. "Meaning that tomfoolery of this sort never pays. I know. I've done it myself in my time.
"It was the kindest thing you could do," Babbacombe said. "Ah, but you mustn't misunderstand." A note of wistfulness sounded in the high voice. "You won't misunderstand, will you, Jack? I only want a friend." "You needn't be afraid, Cynthia," he said. "I shall never attempt to be anything else to you without your free consent." "Thank you," she murmured. "I know I'm very mean.
West's face remained as a mask; his eyes never varied. "You can change all that," he said. Babbacombe shook his head. "I am not even sure that I shall try." "What then?" said West. "Are you suggesting that the woman you love should marry an ex-convict a notorious swindler, a blackguard?" "I think," Babbacombe answered firmly, "that she ought to be allowed to decide that point."
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