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Updated: June 13, 2025
It flooded her heart, and beneath it sank down, like a drowning thing, for a moment the frightful bitterness that was alive in her heart to-night. "Delarey loved you," Artois repeated. "He loved you on the first day in Sicily, and he loved you on the last." "And and the days between?" Her voice spoke falteringly.
For an instant it seemed to him that the years had rolled back, that he was in London, in Caminiti's restaurant, that he saw Maurice Delarey, with the reverential expression on his face that had been so pleasing. Yes, the boy Ruffo looked like him in that moment, as he stood there, wishing to do his devoir, to be polite, but not knowing how to. "Never mind, Ruffo," It was Vere's voice.
Delarey rebelled. He had been invited to the festa and he had refused to go almost eagerly he had refused. Why? There had been something secret in his mind which had prompted him. He had said and even to himself that he did not go lest his presence might bring a disturbing element into the peasants' gayety. But was that his reason? Leaning over the wall he looked down upon the sea.
Again, and much more strongly than on the previous day, Artois felt that in Hermione's absence the Sicilian life of the dead man had not run smoothly, that there had been some episode of which she knew nothing, that he, Artois, had been right in his suspicions at the cottage. Delarey had been in fear of something, had been on the watch.
Two columns nearer at hand were called upon to relieve Lichtenburg, but in the meantime it had relieved itself; for although Delarey succeeded in winning a footing within it, the obstinate resistance which he encountered disheartened him, and he withdrew on March 4 after twenty-four hours' fighting.
He had hardly started when news came in that an isolated garrison seventy miles away in the N.W. was threatened. Delarey had a definite objective in view when he disappeared, his native town of Lichtenburg. The place was one of many for which Methuen, with an attenuated force, was responsible; and now he had been called away to a town in trouble in the opposite direction.
In the faint light cast by the flickering candle, the faces of saints and actresses, of smiling babies, of lovers and Madonnas peered at Delarey as if curious to know why at such an hour he ventured to intrude among them, why he thus dared to examine them when all the world was sleeping.
He felt, too, that he owed much to Delarey. In a sense it might be said that he owed to him his life. For Delarey had allowed Hermione to come to Africa, and if Hermione had not come the end for him, Artois, might well have been death. "I should like to say something to you, monsieur," he said.
"Do you know" and here his accent was grave, almost reproachful "that in all your letters to me I looked them over before I left Paris there is no allusion, not one, to this Monsieur Delarey." "Why should there be?" she answered. She sat down, but Artois continued to stand. "We seldom wrote of persons, I think.
It was also advisable to wait until supplies had been collected at Middelburg, and until Buller, who was coming up from the south, was in a position to co-operate. Lord Roberts returned to Pretoria, leaving French in charge. Ian Hamilton, the emergency man, was sent to the west to deal with Delarey and De Wet.
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