Part 22 (1/2)
The restraint of his manner was infectious, as restraint is apt to be; and she was hampered by a prescience of things to come.
”I was awfully keen to go too,” he said, as he obeyed her. ”But perhaps it's just as well that I didn't get the chance, judging from . . . from what I hear.”
”You shouldn't judge from what you hear,” she murmured.
”Shouldn't I? But unluckily it fits in with . . . what I see. Miss Mayhew . . .” he pressed forward, his eyes searching her face, devout wors.h.i.+p in the sincere blue depths of them. ”Will you be angry with me, if I ask you a straight question?”
She shook her head.
”And will you give me a straight answer?”
”If I can.”
”Is it true that you are likely to . . . marry Maurice?”
”Not that I know of.” He took a great breath, like a condemned man who hears his reprieve.
”Then, may I still believe . . . what you told me at Lah.o.r.e?”
Her answer seemed an eternity in coming; for a plain 'yes' or 'no' were equally far from the truth. This boy of four-and-twenty gave her the restful sense of reliance and reserve force that she so missed in Maurice. But there was no art, no thrill in his love-making. It was direct and simple as himself. He never struck a chord of emotion and left it quivering, as Maurice had done many times.
”May I?”--he persisted gently.
”I still think you are . . . the best man I know,” she admitted, without looking at him; and he flushed to the roots of his hair.
”But not the one you--care for most? It's that that matters, you know.”
”Oh, I can't tell--truly I can't,” she pleaded distressfully.
”Then I must just go on waiting.”
”I wish you wouldn't even do that.”
”I can only prevent it by putting a bullet through my head.”
The quiet finality of his tone was more convincing than volumes of protestations; and she shuddered.
”Don't say such things, please.--You hurt me.”
”I wouldn't do that for a kingdom. But it's the truth.--I go down on the fifteenth, you know.”
”Yes.--I'm sorry.”
”Are you? Then why--oh, I don't understand you!” he broke off in despair.
”I'm not sure that I understand myself--yet. It takes time, I suppose.”
”Not when the right chap turns up, I fancy. But I'll give you as much time as you want. I have a year's leave due. Shall I take it, and go home?”
She looked rueful.
”A year is a long time. But perhaps that would be best. You might find--some one else there, who understood herself better.”