Rosa Mundi and Other Stories Part 63

"There are other men," said Herne.

"Yes, I know, but--" She threw out her arms suddenly with a gesture that had in it something pa.s.sionate. "Oh, if only I were a man myself!" she said. "How I wish I were!"

"Why?" said Herne.

She answered him instantly, her voice not wholly steady.

"I want to travel. I want to explore. I want to go to the very heart of the world, and--and learn its secrets."

Herne turned his head very deliberately and looked at her.

"And then?" he said.

Half defiantly her eyes met his.

"I would find Bobby Duncannon," she said, "and bring him back."

Herne stood up slowly.

"I thought that was it," he said.

"And why shouldn't it be?" said Betty. "I have known him for a long time now. Wouldn't you do as much for a pal?"

Herne was silent for a moment. Then:

"You would be wiser to forget him," he said. "He will never come back."

"I shall never forget him," said Betty almost fiercely.

He looked at her gravely.

"You mean to waste the rest of your life waiting for him?" he asked.

Her hands gripped each other suddenly.

"You call it waste?" she said.

"It is waste," he made answer, "sheer, d.a.m.nable waste. The boy was mad enough to sacrifice his own career--everything that he had--but it is downright infernal that you should be sacrificed too. Why should you pay the penalty for his madness? He was probably killed long ago, and even if not--even if he lived and came back--you would probably ask yourself if you had ever met him before."

"Oh, no!" Betty said. "No!"

She turned and looked out to the water that gleamed so peacefully in the moonlight.

"Do you know," she said, her voice very low, scarcely more than a whisper, "he asked me to marry him--five years ago--just before he went.

It was my first proposal. I was very young, not eighteen. And--and it frightened me. I really don't know why. And so I refused. He said he would ask me again when I was older, when I had come out. I remember being rather relieved when he went away. It wasn't till afterwards, when I came to see the world and people, that I realized that he was more to me than any one else. He--he was wonderfully fascinating, don't you think? So strong, so eager, so full of life! I have never seen any one quite like him." She leaned her hands suddenly against a projecting stone b.u.t.tress and bowed her head upon them. "And I--refused him!" she said.

The low voice went out in a faint sob, and the man's hands clenched. The next instant he had crossed the s.p.a.ce that divided him from the slender figure in its white draperies that drooped against the wall.

He bent down to her.

"Betty, Betty," he said, "you're crying for the moon, child. Don't!"

She turned, and with a slight, confiding movement slid out a trembling hand.

"I have never told anyone but you," she said.

He clasped the quivering fingers very closely.

"I would sell my soul to see you happy," he said. "But, my dear Betty, happiness doesn't lie in that direction. You are sacrificing substance to shadow. Won't you see it before it's too late, before the lean years come?" He paused a moment, seeming to restrain himself. Then, "I've never told you before," he said, his voice very low, deeply tender. "I hardly dare to tell you now, lest you should think I'm trading on your friends.h.i.+p, but I, too, am one of those unlucky beggars that want to marry you. You needn't trouble to refuse me, dear. I'll take it all for granted. Only, when the lean years do come to you, as they will, as they must, will you remember that I'm still wanting you, and give me the chance of making you happy?"

"Oh, don't!" sobbed Betty. "Don't! You hurt me so!"

"Hurt you, Betty! I!"

She turned impulsively and leaned her head against him.

"Major Herne, you--you are awfully good to me, do you know? I shall never forget it. And if--if I were not quite sure in my heart that Bobby is still alive and wanting me, I would come to you, if you really cared to have me. But--but--"

"Do you mean that, Betty?" he said. His arm was round her, but he did not seek to draw her nearer, did not so much as try to see her face.

But she showed it to him instantly, lifting clear eyes, in which the tears still shone, to his.

"Oh, yes, I mean it. But, Major Herne, but----"

He met her look, faintly smiling.

"Yes," he said. "It's a pretty big 'but,' I know, but I'm going to tackle it. I'm going to find out if the boy is alive or dead. If he lives, you shall see him again; if he is dead--and this is the more probable, for it is no country for white men--I shall claim you for myself, Betty. You won't refuse me then?"

"Only find out for certain," she said.

"I will do that," he promised.

"But how? How? You won't go there yourself?"

"Why not?" he said.

Something like panic showed in the girl's eyes. She laid her hands on his shoulders.

"Monty, I don't want you to go."

"You would rather I stayed?" he said. He was looking closely into her eyes.

She endured the look for a little, then suddenly the tears welled up again.

"I can't bear you to go," she whispered. "I mean--I mean--I couldn't bear it if--if----"

He took her hands gently, and held them.