Part 12 (2/2)
”Yes. We shall not be in England much longer.”
”You are going for good?” he asked. ”I mean, to remain away?”
”When we go,” she said, ”it is very doubtful if ever I shall set my foot on English soil again.”
He drew a quick breath. It was his one chance, then. Her last words must be his excuse for such precipitation. They had scrambled down through an opening in the cliffs, and there was no one else in sight. Some instinct seemed to tell her what was coming. She tried to talk, but she could not. His hand had closed upon hers, and she had not the strength to draw it away. It was so very English this sudden wooing. No one had ever dared to touch her fingers before without first begging permission.
”Don't you know--Helene--that I love you? I want you to live in England--to be my wife. Don't say that I haven't a chance. I know that I ought not to have spoken yet, but you are going away so soon, and I am so afraid that I might not see you again alone. Don't stop me, please. I am not asking you now for your love. I know that it is too soon--to hope for that--altogether! I only want you to know, and to be allowed to hope.”
”You must not. It is impossible.”
The words were very low, and they came from her quivering with intense pain. He released her fingers. She leaned upon a huge boulder near and, resting her face upon her hand, gazed dreamily out to sea.
”I am very sorry,” she said. ”My uncle was right after all. It was not wise for us to meet. I ought to have no friends. It was not wise--it was very, very foolish.”
Being a man, his first thoughts had been for himself. But at her words he forgot everything except that she too was unhappy.
”Do you mean,” he said slowly, ”that you cannot care for me, or that there are difficulties which seem to you to make it impossible?”
She looked up at him, and he scarcely knew her transfigured face, with the tears glistening upon her eyelashes.
”Do not tempt me to say what might make both of us more unhappy,” she begged. ”Be content to know that I cannot marry you.”
”You have promised somebody else?”
”I shall probably marry,” she said deliberately, ”somebody else.”
He ground his heel into the soft sands, and his eyes flashed.
”You are being coerced!” he cried.
She lifted her head proudly.
”There is no person breathing,” she said quietly, ”who would dare to attempt such a thing!”
Then he looked out with her towards the sea, and they watched the long, rippling waves break upon the brown sands, the faint and unexpected gleam of wintry suns.h.i.+ne lying upon the bosom of the sea, and the screaming seagulls, whose white wings shone like alabaster against the darker clouds. For him these things were no longer beautiful, nor did he see the sunlight, which with a sudden fitfulness had warmed the air. It was all very cold and grey. It was not possible for him to read the riddle yet--she had not said that she could not care for him. There was that hope!
”There is no one,” he said slowly, ”who could coerce you? You will not marry me, but you will probably marry somebody else. Is it, then, that you care for this other man, and not for me?”
She shook her head.
”Of the two,” she said, with a faint attempt at her old manner, ”I prefer you. Yet I shall marry him.”
Wolfenden became aware of an unexpected sensation. He was getting angry.
”I have a right,” he said, resting his hand upon her shoulder, and gaining courage from her evident weakness, ”to know more. I have given you my love. At least you owe me in return your confidence. Let me have it. You shall see that even if I may not be your lover, I can at least be your faithful friend.”
She touched his hand tenderly. It was scarcely kind of her--certainly not wise. She had taken off her glove, and the touch of her soft, delicate fingers thrilled him. The blood rushed through his veins like mad music. The longing to take her into his arms was almost uncontrollable. Her dark eyes looked upon him very kindly.
”My friend,” she said, ”I know that you would be faithful. You must not be angry with me. Nay, it is your pity I want. Some day you will know all. Then you will understand. Perhaps even you will be sorry for me, if I am not forgotten. I only wish that I could tell you more; only I may not. It makes me sad to deny you, but I must.”
”I mean to know,” he said doggedly--”I mean to know everything. You are sacrificing yourself. To talk of marrying a man whom you do not love is absurd. Who are you? If you do not tell me, I shall go to your guardian. I shall go to Mr. Sabin.”
”Mr. Sabin is always at your service,” said a suave voice almost at his elbow. ”Never more so than at the present.”
Wolfenden turned round with a start. It was indeed Mr. Sabin who stood there--Mr. Sabin, in unaccustomed guise, clad in a tweed suit and leaning upon an ordinary walking-stick.
”Come,” he said good-humouredly, ”don't look at me as though I were something uncanny. If you had not been so very absorbed you would have heard me call to you from the cliffs. I wanted to save myself the climb, but you were deaf, both of you. Am I the first man whose footsteps upon the sands have fallen lightly? Now, what is it you want to ask me, Lord Wolfenden?”
Wolfenden was in no way disturbed at the man's coming. On the contrary, he was glad of it. He answered boldly and without hesitation.
”I want to marry your niece, Mr. Sabin,” he said.
”Very natural indeed,” Mr. Sabin remarked easily. ”If I were a young man of your age and evident taste I have not the least doubt but that I should want to marry her myself. I offer you my sincere sympathy. Unfortunately it is impossible.”
”I want to know,” Wolfenden said, ”why it is impossible? I want a reason of some sort.”
”You shall have one with pleasure,” Mr. Sabin said. ”My niece is already betrothed.”
”To a man,” Wolfenden exclaimed indignantly, ”whom she admits that she does not care for!”
”Whom she has nevertheless,” Mr. Sabin said firmly, and with a sudden flash of anger in his eyes, ”agreed and promised of her own free will to marry. Look here, Lord Wolfenden, I do not desire to quarrel with you. You saved me from a very awkward accident a few nights ago, and I remain your debtor. Be reasonable! My niece has refused your offer. I confirm her refusal. Your proposal does us both much honour, but it is utterly out of the question. That is putting it plainly, is it not? Now, you must choose for yourself--whether you will drop the subject and remain our valued friend, or whether you compel me to ask you to leave us at once, and consider us henceforth as strangers.”
The girl laid her hand upon his shoulder and looked at him pleadingly.
”For my sake,” she said, ”choose to remain our friend, and let this be forgotten.”
”For your sake, I consent,” he said. ”But I give no promise that I will not at some future time reopen the subject.”
”You will do so,” Mr. Sabin said, ”exactly when you desire to close your acquaintance with us. For the rest, you have chosen wisely. Now I am going to take you home, Helene. Afterwards, if Lord Wolfenden will give me a match, I shall be delighted to have a round of golf with him.”
”I shall be very pleased,” Wolfenden answered.
”I will see you at the Pavilion in half an hour,” Mr. Sabin said. ”In the meantime, you will please excuse us. I have a few words to say to my niece.”
She held out both her hands, looking at him half kindly, half wistfully.
”Goodbye,” she said. ”I am so sorry!”
But he looked straight into her eyes, and he answered her bravely. He would not admit defeat.
”I hope that you are not,” he said. ”I shall never regret it.”
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