Part 18 (2/2)
”And--nothing n.o.bler?”
”There is a n.o.ble love, part chivalry, part desire, inspired by mind and body in sweetest unison.”
”A mind that seeks its fellow?” she asked softly.
”No, a mind that seeks its complement, as the body seeks. This union, I think, is really love. But I speak with no experience, Elsin. This only I know, that you are too young, too innocent to comprehend, and that the sentiment awakened in you by what you think is love, is not love.
Child, forgive me what I say, but it rings false as the vows of that young man who importunes you.”
”Is it worthy of you, Carus, to stab him so behind his back?”
I leaned forward, my head in my hands.
”Elsin, I have endured these four years, now, a thousand little stings which I could not resent. Forgetting this, at moments I blurt out a truth which, were matters otherwise with me, I might back with--what is looked for when a man repeats what may affront his listener. It is, in a way, unworthy, as you say, that I speak lightly to you of a man I can not meet with honor to myself. Yet, Elsin, were my duty first to you--first even to myself--this had been settled now--this matter touching you and Walter Butler--and also my ancient score with him, which is as yet unreckoned.”
”What keeps you, then?” she said, and her voice rang a little.
I looked at her; she sat there, proud head erect, searching me with scornful eyes.
”A small vow I made,” said I carelessly.
”And when are you released, sir?”
”Soon, I hope.”
”Then, Mr. Renault,” she said disdainfully, ”I pray you swallow your dislike of Captain Butler until such time as you may explain your enmity to him.”
The lash stung. I sat dazed, then wearied, while the tingling pa.s.sed.
Even the silence tired me, and when I could command my voice I said: ”Shall we descend, madam? There is a chill in the sea-air.”
”I do not feel it,” she answered, her voice not like her own.
”Do you desire to stay here?”
”No,” she said, springing up. ”This silence of the stars wearies me.”
She pa.s.sed before me across the parapet and down the inclined way, I at her heels; and so into the dark parade, where I caught up with her.
”Have I angered you without hope of pardon?” I asked.
”You have spoiled it all for me----”
She bit her lip, suddenly silent. Sir Peter Coleville stood before us.
”Lady Coleville awaits you,” he said very quietly, too quietly by far.
”Carus, take her to my wife. Our coach is waiting.”
We stared at him in apprehension. His face was serene, but colorless and hard as steel, as he turned and strode away; and we followed without a word, drawing closer together as we moved through a covered pa.s.sage-way and out along Pearl Street, where Sir Peter's coach stood, lamps s.h.i.+ning, footman at the door.
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