Part 19 (1/2)
Stirred by the warning, Robert tried to rise. He raised himself to his knees, but the pain in his injured foot was too great, and he fell forward on his face unconscious, and the race ended with Paterson as winner. It was an ironical situation, and soon the crowd were over the ropes, and the two opponents were carried to the dressing tent, where restoratives were applied under which they soon came round.
It was a poor ending to such a fine exhibition. A terrible anger smoldered in Robert's breast against the mine-owner's son for his unconscious action, an action which Robert, blinded by anger at losing, was now firmly convinced was deliberate, and he felt he would just like to smash Rundell's face for it.
Robert went home to have his injured foot attended to. He was too disgusted to feel any more interest in the games that day, and so he remained in the house, nursing his foot for the rest of the day, which pa.s.sed as such days usually do. Everyone talked about his misfortune and regretted in a casual way the accident which had deprived him of the coveted honor.
It was in late June, and that night Peter Rundell, as he was returning from the games after every event had been decided, overtook Mysie on her way to Rundell House, after having spent the evening at her parents'
home.
”It's a lovely evening, Mysie,” he said, as he walked along by her side.
”What did you think of the games to-day?”
”Oh, no' bad,” replied Mysie, not knowing what else to say. ”It was a gran' day, an' kept up fine,” she continued, alluding to the weather.
”Yes. Didn't I make a horrible mess of things in the Red Hose?” he asked. Then, without waiting, he went on: ”I was sorry for Sinclair.
He's a fine chap, and ought to have won. It was purely an accident, and I couldn't help myself. I was beaten and done for, and it was hard lines for him to be knocked out in the way he was, just as he was on the point of winning, too.”
”Oh, but ye couldna' help it,” Mysie returned. ”It was an accident.”
”Yes; and I would rather Sinclair had got in, though. It was a good race, and Sinclair ought to have got the prize. It was rotten luck. I'm sorry, and I hope the poor beggar does not blame me. We seem always to be fated to be rivals,” he continued, his voice dropping into reminiscent tones. ”Do you remember how we used to fight at school? I've liked Sinclair always since for the way he stood up for the things he thought were right. I believe you were the cause of our hardest battle, and that also was an accident.”
”Yes,” replied Mysie, her face flus.h.i.+ng slightly as she remembered the incident, and how Peter had been chosen, when her heart told her to choose Robert.
”Oh, well,” said Peter, ”I suppose we can't help these things. Fate wills it. Let's forget all about such unpleasant things. It's a lovely night. We might go round by the wood. It's not so late yet,” and putting Mysie's arm in his, he turned off into the little pathway that skirted the wood, and she, caught by the glamor of the gloaming, as well as flattered by his attentions, acquiesced.
Plaintive and eerie the moor-birds protested against this invasion of their haunts. The moon came slowly up over the eastern end of the moor, flinging a silver radiance abroad, and softening the shadows cast by the hills. A strange, dank smell rose from the mossy ground--the scent of rotting heather and withered gra.s.s, mixed with the beautiful perfume from beds of wild thyme.
A low call came from a brooding curlew, a faint sigh from a plover, and the wild rasping cry of a lapwing greeted them overhead. Yet there was a silence, a silence broken for a moment by the cries of the birds, but a silence thick and heavy. Between the calls of the birds Mysie could almost hear her heart's quickened beat. Blood found an eager response, and the magic of the moonlight and the beauty of the night soon wrought upon the excited minds of the pair. Mysie looked in Peter's eyes more desirable than ever. The moonlight on her face, the soft light within her eyes, her shy, downcast look, and the touch of her arm on his charmed him.
”There are some things, Mysie, more desirable than the winning of the Red Hose,” he said after a time, looking sideways at her, and placing his hand upon hers, which had been resting upon his arm. ”Don't you think so?”
”I dinna ken,” she answered simply, a strange little quiver running through her as she spoke.
”Isn't this better than anything else, just to be happy with everything so peaceful? Just you and I together, happy in each other's company.”
”Ay,” she answered again, a faint little catch in her voice, her heart a-tremble, and her eyes moist and s.h.i.+ning. Then silence again, while they slowly strayed through the heather towards the little wooded copse, and Mysie felt that every thump of her heart must be heard at the farthest ends of the earth. Chased by the winds of pa.s.sion raging within him, discretion was fast departing from Peter, leaving him more and more a prey to impulse and the unwearying persistence of the fever of love that was consuming him.
”Listen, Mysie, I read a song yesterday. It's the sort of thing I'd have written about you:
”In the pa.s.sionate heart of the rose, Which from life its deep ardor is feeing.
And lifts its proud head to disclose Its immaculate beauty and being.
I can see your fine soul in repose, With an eye lit with love and all-seeing, In the pa.s.sionate heart of the rose, All athrob with its beauty of being.”
He quoted, and Mysie's pulse leapt with every word, as the low soothing wooing of his voice came in soft tones like a gentle breeze among clumps of briars.
”Isn't it a beautiful song, Mysie?” he said. ”The man who wrote that must have been thinking of someone very like you,” and as he said this, he gave her hand a tender squeeze. Mysie thrilled to his touch and her heart leapt and fluttered like a bird in a snare, her breath coming in short little gasps, which were at once a pain and a joy.