Part 22 (1/2)
”Anything on which you have set your heart. You're like Gervase in that respect, and it is a quality I admire immensely in a man.”
”But what if two strong men set their hearts on the same thing?”
”What thing?”
”Oh, anything. A woman, for instance,” he said, with a forced laugh.
”Ah, then I expect the stronger and the worthier would win.”
”Do women admire strength and worth so much? Do they not rather admire position and name and t.i.tle? Has the poor man a chance against the rich; the plain man any chance against gold lace and epaulets?”
”No one can speak in the name of all women. But I must run away now or Sir Charles may go to my room in search of me.”
”Will you write your letter to-day?”
”I don't know. Very likely I shall if I can find time.”
”And will you say 'Yes?' Pardon me being so inquisitive.”
”Oh, I expect I shall,” she said, with a smile. ”It seems the proper thing to do. Gervase and I appear to have been meant for each other.”
”I hope you will be happy,” he said, holding out his hand to her.
”Good-bye.”
Half-an-hour later Mrs. Tuke found him staring fixedly out of the window as though he had been turned to stone. The trees were still swaying in the wind, but he did not see them. Through breaks in the clouds bright gleams of suns.h.i.+ne shot into the room every now and then, but he did not heed. From over the cliffs came the faint roar of the sea, but he did not hear. The world had become suddenly dark and silent. The fairy garden had vanished, leaving a bleak cold desert in its place; his heart seemed to have stopped beating. For the moment all interest had gone out of life. He almost wished that he could close his eyes in sleep and never awake again.
”Are you getting impatient to get out of doors?” Mrs. Tuke questioned.
”It will be a relief to get out again,” he answered, absently.
”Well, I'm bound to say you've been wonderfully patient, all things considered. But then, as I often say, what can't be cured must be endured.”
”Yes; that's sound philosophy.”
”And then you've been well looked after.”
”Yes; you are an excellent nurse, Mrs. Tuke, and I shall always be grateful.”
”Oh, I was not thinking of myself in particular,” Mrs. Tuke said, with humility. ”The doctors have attended to you as if you were Sir Charles himself. And as for that sweet creature Miss Grover, she's just a sunbeam.”
”Yes; she's delightful company.”
”You know, it's my belief,” Mrs. Tuke said, mysteriously, ”that the folks at the Hall haven't the ghost of an idea that she's been coming here to see you.”
”What leads you to think that?”
”Oh, well, from little 'ints she's dropped now and then; but of course, time will tell,” and Mrs. Tuke began to make preparations for his midday meal.
Time did tell, and tell much sooner than anyone antic.i.p.ated. The next morning's post brought a letter from Madeline which scattered the last remnants of fairyland.