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

CHAPTER IV.
THE END OF THE BEGINNING.
ARBUTHNOT grasped the back of his long chair.
Clare saw his knuckles go white under his grip. His
face was ashen; set lips, stern-eyed, strong—a complete
man. Only the colour of his face denoted
what he was enduring. He picked up his glass,
emptied it, set it down again. Never once did he
look at his wife. His hand as he lifted the glass
never so much as trembled. Mackenzie was right;
one can be too confident and overlook the human
element. And now Bruce Arbuthnot would lose
the thing he prized beyond all else—the thing he
valued beyond any other earthly possession—his
Clare!
And now at last he looked at her.
She met his look. "Bruce, tell me—what is it?
What has happened? Say something. Oh, my God!
Bruce, don't stand there—say something!"
She flung herself upon him, beat his great body
faintly with soft fists, scarce knowing what she
did. "Bruce! Oh, dear God! What has happened—what
has happened?"
He put his great arms round her. "Steady,
sweetheart, steady," he said. Then: "The babe is
dead—stabbed."
THE FOOT OF TIME
"Oh!" Clare buried her face in her hands, sunk
it in her arms. Dropping them suddenly, "Bruce,"
she said, "it's awful. How? Why? Who did it?"
"Jealousy, darling. It was jealousy that was the
cause of it."
"Why? Who killed it? Oh, God, it's too awful.
Who was jealous? Why was she jealous?"
"It was the coolie you were enquiring about.
Damned little vixen. Ranee, the best plucker on
the Estate."
Stunned, Clare looked at him. Her subconscious
mind already knew all. She but questioned him
mechanically. She felt that she must talk or go
mad. Then she took courage in both hands. She
must know everything—hear it from his own lips.
She must know the worst. Anything was better
than this suspense.
"Bruce! It can't be. Don't tell me that you—
you " Her questions came in gasps. "Why did
the other girl—the mother—bring her baby to show
you?"
Bruce answered her no word, only held her tigFit
—held her lest he lose her for good; for good and
for all. She broke away from him.
"My husband. Tell, me, can't you? Don't stand
there looking at me." She stamped her foot. "Do
you hear me? Don't stand there like a great stuffed
image! Speak. Say something. Oh, my God, can't
you speak. Tell me, why—why, Bruce? Oh, I
think I shall go mad," the poor girl finished. But
she was wrong there. Women of the calibre of
Clare Arbuthnot do not go mad. They may col-
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