Part 27 (1/2)
It had come so suddenly that it took her by surprise. The colour flew into her cheeks and then ebbed away again, leaving her whiter than ever. That he should have actually said the words made her heart beat furiously, and there was a singing in her ears so that she scarcely heard what he said. He paused a moment and then went on. ”Oh! I know it's absurd when we've only known each other such a little time, and I've been telling myself that again and again--but it's no good. I've tried to keep it back, but I simply couldn't help it--it's been too strong for me.”
He paused again, but she said nothing and he went on. ”I ought to tell you about myself, so that you should know, because I'm really a very rotten type of person. I've never done anything yet, and I don't suppose I ever shall; I've been a failure at most things, and I'm stupid. I never read the right sort of books, or look at the right sort of pictures, or like the right sort of music, and even at the sort of things that most men are good at I'm nothing unusual. I can't write, you know, a bit, and in my letters I express myself like a boy of fifteen. And then I'm old--quite middle-aged--although I feel young enough. So that all these things are against me, and it's really a shame to ask you.”
He paused again, and then he said timidly, bending towards her--
”Could you ever, do you think, give me just a little hope--I wouldn't want you to right away at once--but, any time, after you'd thought about it?”
She looked up at him and saw that he was shaking from head to foot.
Her pride was nearly overcome and she wanted to fling herself at his feet, and kiss his hands, and never let him go, but she remembered that Pendragon had said that she was catching him for his money; so, by a great effort, she stayed where she was, and answered quietly, even coldly--
”I am more honoured, Mr. Trojan, than I can tell you by your asking me.
It is much, very much more than I deserve, and, indeed, I'm not in the least worthy of it. I'm sorry, but I'm afraid it's no good. You see I'm such a stupid sort of girl--I muddle things so. It would never do for me to attempt to manage a big place like 'The Flutes'--and then I don't think I shall ever marry. I don't think I am that sort of girl.
You have been an awfully good friend to me, and I'm more grateful to you than I can say. I can't tell you how much you have helped us all during these last weeks. But I'm afraid I must say no.”
The light from the window fell on her hair and the blue of her dress--a little gold pin at her throat flashed and sparkled; his eye caught it, and was fixed there.
”No--don't say actually no.” He was stammering. ”Please--please.
Think about it after I have gone away. I will come again another day when you have thought about it. I'm so stupid in saying things--I can't express myself; but, Miss Bethel--Mary--I love you--I love you.
There isn't much to say about it--I can't express it any better--but, please--you mustn't say no like that. I would be as good a husband to you as I could, dear, always. I'm not the sort of fellow to change.”
”No”--she was speaking quickly as though she meant it to be final--”no, really, I mean it. I can't, I can't. You see one has to feel certain about it, hasn't one?--and I don't--not quite like that. But you are the very best friend that I have ever had; don't let it spoil that.”
”Perhaps,” he said slowly, ”it's my age. You don't feel that you could with a man old enough to be your father. But I'm young--younger than Robin. But I won't bother you about it. Of course, if you are certain----”
He rose and stumbled a moment over the chair as he pa.s.sed to the door.
”Oh! I'm so sorry!” she cried. ”I----” and then she had to turn to hide her face. In her heart there was a struggle such as she had never faced before. Her love called her a fool and told her that she was flinging her life away--that the s.h.i.+p of her good fortune was sailing from her, and it would be soon beyond the horizon; but her pride reminded her of what they had said--that she had laid traps for him, for his money.
”I am sorry,” she said again. ”But it must be only friends.h.i.+p.”
But she had forgotten that although her back was turned he was towards the mirror. He could see her--her white face and quivering lips.
He sprang towards her.
”Mary, try me. I will love you better than any man in G.o.d's world, always. I will live for you, and work for you, and die for you.”
It was more than she could bear. She could not reason now. She was only resolved that she would not give way, and she pushed past him blindly, her head hanging.
The drawing-room door closed. He stared dully in front of him. Then he picked up his hat and left the house.
She had flung herself on her bed and lay there motionless. She heard the door close, his steps on the stairs, and then the outer door.
She sprang to the window, and then, moved by some blind impulse, rushed to the head of the stairs. There were steps, and Mrs. Bethel's voice penetrated the gloom. ”Mary, Mary, where are you?”
She crept back to her room.
He walked back to ”The Flutes” with the one fact ever before him--that she had refused him. He realised now that it had been his love for her that had kept him during these weeks sane and brave. Without it, he could not have faced his recent troubles and all the desolate sense of outlawry and desolation that had weighed on him so terribly. Now he must face it, alone, with the knowledge that she did not love him--that she had told him so. It was his second rejection--the second flinging to the ground of all his defences and walls of protection. Robin had rejected him, Mary had rejected him, and he was absolutely, horribly alone. He thought for a moment of Dahlia Feverel and of her desertion.
Well, she had faced it pluckily; he would do the same. Life could be hard, but he would not be beaten. His methods of consolation, his pulling of himself together--it was all extremely commonplace, but then he was an essentially commonplace man, and saw things unconfusedly, one at a time, with no entanglement of motives or complicated searching for origins. He had accepted the fact of his rejection by his family with the same clear-headed indifference to side-issues as he accepted now his rejection by Mary. He could not understand ”those artist fellows with their complications”--life for him was perfectly straight-forward.
But the G.o.ds had not done with his day. On the way up to his room he was met by Clare.