Part 37 (2/2)

about certain matters . . .”

”What matters, Andor?” she asked ingenuously.

”Matters which have lain next to my heart, Elsa, for more years now than I would care to count.”

”Perhaps it is a little too soon, Andor--yet--” she whispered under her breath.

Oh! She could have whipped herself for that warm blush which now covered not only her cheeks but her neck and bosom, and for that glow of happiness which had rushed straight at her heart at his words. But he had already seen the blush, and caught that expression of happiness in her blue eyes which suddenly made her look as she did of old--five years ago--before that wan, pathetic expression of resignation had altered her sweet face so completely.

”I don't want to worry you, Elsa,” he said simply.

”You couldn't worry me, Andor,” she said, ”you have always been the best friend I had in the world.”

”That is because I have loved you more dearly than anyone ever loved you on this earth,” he said earnestly.

”G.o.d bless you for that, Andor.”

He leaned forward, nearer to her now: his gaze had become more fixed, more compelling. Since he had seen that look on her face and that blush he was sure of his ground; he knew that, given time and peace, the wheel of fate, which had already taken an upward turn for him, would soon carry him to the summit of his desires--the woman whom he loved was no longer unattainable and she had remained faithful throughout all this time.

”Do you think, Elsa,” he asked more insistently now, and sinking his voice to that whisper which reaches a woman's ear far more truly than the loudest beating of drum, ”do you think that, now that you are free, you could bring yourself to . . . to care . . . to . . . ? You were very fond of me once, Elsa,” he pleaded.

”I am fond of you now, Andor,” she whispered in response. ”No, no,” she added hurriedly, for already he had made a movement towards her and the next moment would have been down on his knees with his arms around her, but for the gently-restraining touch of her hand, ”it is too soon to talk about that.”

”Yes--too soon,” he a.s.sented with enforced calm, even though his heart was beating furiously; ”it is too soon I know, and I won't worry you, Elsa--I said I wouldn't and I won't. . . . I am not a cur to come and force myself on you when you are not ready to listen to me, and we won't talk about it all . . . not just yet.” . . .

His throat felt very dry, and his tongue felt several sizes too large for his mouth. It was mightily difficult to keep calm and to speak soberly when one's inclination was firstly to dance a war-dance of triumph and of joy and then to take that dear, sweet angel of a woman in one's arms and to kiss her till she was ready to faint.

”When do you think I might speak to you again, Elsa?” he said, with a certain pathetic hesitancy, ”about . . .”

”About what, Andor?” she asked.

”About our getting married--later on.”

”Not just yet,” she murmured, ”but . . .”

”No, no, of course I understand. There are the proprieties and all that . . . you were tokened to that blackguard and . . . Oh! All right, I am not going to say anything against him,” he added quickly as he saw that words of protest and reproach were already hovering on her lips. ”I won't say anything about him at all except that he is dead now and buried, thank the good G.o.d! . . . And you . . . you still care for me, Elsa,” he continued, whilst a wave of tenderness seemed to sweep all other thoughts away. ”No, no, don't say anything--not now--it is too soon, of course--and I've just got to wait till the time comes as best I can. But you mustn't mind my talking on at random like this . . . for I tell you I am nearly crazy with joy--and I suppose that you would think it very wrong to rejoice like this over another man's death.”

His talk was a little wild and rambling--it was obvious that he was half distracted with the prospect of happiness to come. She sat quite still, listening silently, with eyes fixed to the ground. Only now and then she would look up--not at Andor, but at the paralytic who was gazing on her with the sad eyes of uncomprehension. Then she would nod and smile at him and coo in her own motherly way and he would close his eyes--satisfied.

And Andor, who had paused for that brief moment in his voluble talk, went rambling on.

”You know,” he said, ”that it's perfectly wonderful . . . this room, I mean . . . when I look round me I can hardly credit my eyes. . . . Just a week ago . . . you remember? . . . I sat just there . . . at the opposite corner of the table, and you had your low chair against the wall just here . . . and . . . and you told me that you were tokened to Eros Bela and that your wedding would be on the morrow . . . well! That was little more than a week ago . . . before your farewell feast . . .

and I thought then that never, never could I be happy again because you told me that never, never could we be anything to each other except a kind of friendly strangers. . . . I remember then how a sort of veil seemed to come down in front of my eyes . . . a dark red veil . . .

things didn't look black to me, you know, Elsa . . . but red. . . . So now I am quite content just to bide my time--I am quite content that you should say nothing to me--nothing _good_, I mean. . . . It'll take some time before the thought of so much happiness has got proper root-hold of my brain.”

”Poor Andor!” she sighed, and turned a gaze full of love upon the sick man. Her heart was br.i.m.m.i.n.g over with it, and so the paralytic got the expression of it in its fullest measure, since Andor was not ent.i.tled to it yet.

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