The Foot of Time: A Novel of Australia and the South Seas: (1933)

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THE FOOT OF TIME
Then if there is anything over—well, damn it, you
have an Emergency Account, haven't you, man?"
Apparently there was such an account upon
Publoo, as also upon every garden in the group,
even though in other directions there was no unnecessary
duplication of personal servants or waste
of good money in superfluities.
Clare heard Mackenzie say, "That's extremely
generous of you, Sir Bruce. The Lord put a kind
heart into your sinful soul, and I'd cut off my right
hand for you; but oh, mon, when I think of your
lovely—."
Clare thought Mackenzie was going to say wife,
and her heart missed a beat. She regretted this unavoidable
eavesdropping, but it had all happened
so quickly. She had not intended to overhear anything.
Then the crunch of their riding boots on
the gravel path drowned further audibility. The
heavy crunch, crunch, then the sharp slap of the
baronet's riding crop against the side of his long
boot as he mounted the steps of the verandah. The
self-confident tread dispelled doubts, leaving but
the knowledge of her great man's nobility of character.
Eagerly Clare looked up as her husband's
form filled the doorway, then jumping to her feet
she ran to him.
Poor, poor Clare! May "the foot of time" in its
inexorable merciless march recompense you if recompense
be needed, and if the gates of hell be
loosened upon you and yours, may you learn
in the fullness of time through adversity the greatest
happiness that human life can hold.
CHAPTER III.
THE GATES OF HELL.
DINNER was over, and Sir Bruce and his wife lay
luxuriously in long deck chairs smoking. Outside
the room the stars twinkled clearly through the
mountain night. Arbuthnot's long black Burmese
cheroot glowed in the dim light of their room.
Clare affected mild Virginian cigarettes, but there
was nothing of affectation about her restricted
smoking. She really enjoyed her indulgence, and
the quality of her brand, obtained from the Army
and Navy Stores down in Calcutta, soothed her.
There were times when, for reasons more intuitive
than tangible, some degree of appeasement was
fraught with the reverse of harm.
So they rested after their meal, quietly talking
to each other. Bruce Arbuthnot, the seventh
baronet, was more silent than was usual with him.
Through the open folding glass doors the murmu r of tropical insects, the hoot of an owl, and mysterious
rustlings came to them.
"Do owls kill snakes, Bruce?" Clare asked, break-
ing a long silence. The question awoke his reverie.
"I shouldn't wonder, darling: really don't know
—yes, probably they would—small ones; the small
snakes, I mean."