WOLFENDEN'S LOVE-MAKING
"Lord Wolfenden?"
He laughed at her surprise, and took off his cap. He was breathless, for
he had been scrambling up the steep side of the hill on which she was
standing, looking steadfastly out to sea. Down in the valley from which
he had come a small boy with a bag of golf clubs on his back was
standing, making imaginary swings at the ball which lay before him.
"I saw you from below," he explained. "I couldn't help coming up. You
don't mind?"
"No; I am glad to see you," she said simply. "You startled me, that is
all. I did not hear you coming, and I had forgotten almost where I was.
I was thinking."
He stood by her side, his cap still in his hand, facing the strong sea
wind. Again he was conscious of that sense of extreme pleasure which had
always marked his chance meetings with her. This time he felt perhaps
that there was some definite reason for it. There was something in her
expression, when she had turned so swiftly round, which seemed to tell
him that her first words were not altogether meaningless. She was
looking a little pale, and he fancied also a little sad. There was an
inexpressible wistfulness about her soft, dark eyes; the light and
charming gaiety of her manner, so un-English and so attractive to him,
had given place to quite another mood. Whatever her thoughts might have
been when he had first seen her there, her tall, slim figure outlined
so clearly against the abrupt sky line, they were at all events scarcely
pleasant ones. He felt that his sudden appearance had not been unwelcome
to her, and he was unreasonably pleased.
"You are still all alone," he remarked. "Has Mr. Sabin not arrived?"
She shook her head.
"I am all alone, and I am fearfully and miserably dull. This place does
not attract me at all: not at this time of the year. I have not heard
from my uncle. He may be here at any moment."
There was no time like the present. He was suddenly bold. It was an
opportunity which might never be vouchsafed to him again.
"May I come with you--a little way along the cliffs?" he asked.
She looked at him and hesitated. More than ever he was aware of some
subtle change in her. It was as though her mental attitude towards him
had adapted itself in some way to this new seriousness of demeanour. It
was written in her features--his eyes read it eagerly. A certain
aloofness, almost hauteur, about the lines of her mouth, creeping out
even in her most careless tones, and plainly manifest in the carriage of
her head, was absent. She seemed immeasurably nearer to him. She was
softer and more womanly. Even her voice in its new and more delicate
notes betrayed the change. Perhaps it was only a mood, yet he would take
advantage of it.
"What about your golf?" she said, motioning down into the valley where
his antagonist was waiting.
"Oh, I can easily arrange that," he declared cheerfully. "Fortunately I
was playing the professional and he will not mind leaving off."
He waved to his caddie, and scribbled a few lines on the back of a card.
"Give that to McPherson," he said. "You can clean my clubs and put them
in my locker. I shall not be playing again this morning."
The boy disappeared down the hill. They stood for a moment side by side.
"I have spoilt your game," she said. "I am sorry."
He laughed.
"I think you know," he said boldly, "that I would rather spend five
minutes with you than a day at golf."
She moved on with a smile at the corners of her lips.
"What a downright person you are!" she said. "But honestly to-day I am
not in the mood to be alone. I am possessed with an uneasy spirit of
sadness. I am afraid of my thoughts."
"I am only sorry," he said, "that you should have any that are not happy
ones. Don't you think perhaps that you are a little lonely? You seem to
have so few friends."
"It is not that," she answered. "I have many and very dear friends, and
it is only for a little time that I am separated from them. It is simply
that I am not used to solitude, and I am becoming a creature of moods
and presentiments. It is very foolish that I give way to them; but
to-day I am miserable. You must stretch out that strong hand of yours,
my friend, and pull me up."
"I will do my best," he said. "I am afraid I cannot claim that there is
anything in the shape of affinity between us; for to-day I am
particularly happy."
She met his eyes briefly, and looked away seawards with the ghost of a
sorrowful smile upon her lips. Her words sounded like a warning.
"Do not be sure," she said. "It may not last."
"It will last," he said, "so long as you choose. For to-day you are the
mistress of my moods!"
"Then I am very sorry for you," she said earnestly.
He laughed it off, but her words brought a certain depression with
them. He went on to speak of something else.
"I have been thinking about you this morning," he said. "If your uncle
is going to play golf here, it will be very dull for you. Would you care
for my mother to come and see you? She would be delighted, I am sure,
for it is dull for her too, and she is fond of young people. If you----"
He stopped short She was shaking her head slowly. The old despondency
was back in her face. Her eyes were full of trouble. She laid her
delicately gloved fingers upon his arm.
"My friend," she said, "it is very kind of you to think of it--but it is
impossible. I cannot tell you why as I would wish. But at present I do
not desire any acquaintances. I must not, in fact, think of it. It would
give me great pleasure to know your mother. Only I must not. Believe me
that it is impossible."
Wolfenden was a little hurt--a good deal mystified. It was a very odd
thing. He was not in the least a snob, but he knew that the visit of the
Countess of Deringham, whose name was still great in the social world,
was not a thing to be refused without grave reasons by a girl in the
position of Mr. Sabin's niece. The old question came back to him with an
irresistible emphasis. Who were these people? He looked at her
furtively. He was an observant man in the small details of a woman's
toilette, and he knew that he had never met a girl better turned out
than his present companion. The cut of her tailor-made gown was
perfection, her gloves and boots could scarcely have come from anywhere
but Paris. She carried herself too with a perfect ease and indefinable
distinction which could only have come to her by descent. She was a
perfect type of the woman of breeding--unrestrained, yet aristocratic to
the tips of her finger-nails.
He sighed as he looked away from her.
"You are a very mysterious young woman," he said, with a forced air of
gaiety.
"I am afraid that I am," she admitted regretfully. "I can assure you
that I am very tired of it. But--it will not last for very much longer."
"You are really going away, then?" he asked quickly.
"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 sunshine 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."