"WHAT HAVE I DONE?"
There was a moment's silence, a moment which seemed like an hour. Then
Stanor spoke--
"Thank you, Pixie!"
He put his arms round her, made as if to kiss her cheek, but the small
hands held him off with unexpected strength.
"Not yet! Not yet! You haven't answered my question!"
"What question?"
"_If you want me_?" The grey eyes were very near his own. They seemed
to search into his very soul. "_Do_ you want me, Stanor?"
"Pixie, what a question! You ... you _know_ the answer."
"I think I do." She nodded her head with a grave certainty. "I'm sure
I do. ... You _don't_ want me, Stanor!"
He started at that, and his hands relaxed their hold. The dull red
flush mounted once more to his forehead, his lips twitched, and twitched
again. The man was suffering, and the marks of his pain were plain to
read.
"Why ... should you say that? Pixie, what is it? I explained about
that extra six months. ... You said you understood. It was part of the
agreement that we were not to write except on occasions. Were my
letters wrong? Didn't they please you? I was never a good hand at
letter-writing. Was that it? What was it? What have I done, Pixie, to
make you doubt me?"
"I don't think," said Pixie dreamily, "you have done anything." It
seemed for a moment as if she had nothing more to say, then suddenly she
asked another question: "Stanor! That day in Liverpool, on the
landing-stage, did you notice a girl standing near me--a girl with a fur
cap?"
"No, Pixie. I noticed only one girl--yourself!"
"She was parting from a man--her lover or husband--who was leaning over
the rail and looking down at her. Stanor ... they ... _cared_! They
loved each other. ... All these years I have had their faces in my
heart. I looked at them, and I looked at you, and I understood the
difference!"
"I was miserable enough, Pixie. All men do not show their feelings in
the same way."
"I knew you were sorry. I was sorry, too. ... I'm not blaming you.
I've no right to blame you. I have waited for you, and you've come
back. You have asked me to marry you. Stanor!" She clasped his arms
with her hands, her eyes intently gazing into his. "I'll tell you the
truth about myself.--I was a child when you went away. I didn't know
how to love. Now I do! If you love me, Stanor, with your whole heart
and soul, more than any one in the world, more than _anything_ in the
world, then marry me, dear, and I'll make you happy! If you don't ...
if there is any doubt in your mind, if there is some one else who has
grown nearer to you while you've been away--I shouldn't be angry,
Stanor, only," her voice shook, a quiver passed over the upturned face,
"please tell me _now_! Be honest! It's for all our lives, remember.
... We've no right to spoil our lives. God gave them to us; we're
responsible to Him. _It will_ spoil them, Stanor, if there's not real,
real love between us. Now tell me ... look in my eyes and tell me,
Stanor ... _do_ you want me?"
But he could not face her. He wrenched himself free of her grasp,
turned towards the mantelpiece, and with a groan buried his face in his
hands.
"Pixie, you ... you shame me ... you cover me with shame! I ought to
have known that I could not deceive you. ... You are not the sort to be
deceived. ... It's worse than you think. ... When the temptation came,
I could have kept out of the way ... she wanted me to keep away, but I
wouldn't do it. I followed her wherever she went--I--you'd better know
the whole truth, and then you'll understand the kind of fellow I am.
It's not my fault that I wasn't married months ago, that you didn't read
it in the papers without a word of preparation! That's what I wanted
... what I proposed. It was she who refused. It is her doing that I
_am_ here to-day. She would have nothing to say to me till I had asked
you first.--I wanted to stay on in America, settle down there, and keep
out of the way--"
He had spoken with his face hidden; now, as he finished speaking, he
remained in the same position, and not a sound came to his ears but the
ticking of the clock in the corner. He might have been alone in the
room; a miserable conviction seized him that he _was_ alone, that
between himself and the girl by his side there had arisen an
impenetrable wall.
As for Pixie she had promised not to be angry, but it appeared to her at
that moment that she had never before known what anger meant. It burned
within her--a flame of indignation and wounded faith, a throwing back on
herself of all the arduous mental battles of the last few days. Never,
even to herself, had Pixie acknowledged that she had learned to love
Stephen Glynn. That it hurt her to know of his love for her; hurt
intolerably to see him depart, were truths which could not be ignored,
but while Stanor lived and was faithful it was impossible even to
contemplate love for another man. Pixie had enough knowledge of her own
nature to realise that she could be happy in giving Stanor a happiness
which he could only gain through her. It was as natural to her to be
happy as for a flower to lift its face in the sun, but for both the sun
was needed. A more introspective soul would have realised that there
were degrees in happiness, and that she would be missing the best; Pixie
with characteristic simplicity accepted what seemed to her the right
step, and shut her mind against vain regrets.
But--Stanor did not want her. He was _not_ faithful. He had had so
little consideration for her feelings that he would have let her read of
his marriage in a public print. He had appeared now only at the command
of another.
"I think," said Pixie deeply, "you are a cowardly man. I am sorry for
the girl you are going to marry. She seems to have a conscience, but it
would have been kinder of her if she had made you tell me the truth
without first trying to spoil my life. I suppose you _would_ have
married me if I had said `yes,' or was it only a form which you never
intended to keep?"
"You are hard on me, Pixie, but I deserve it. I have no excuses to
make. My only comfort is that I have not ruined your happiness. Like
you, I have learnt my lesson, and I can see one thing clearly: You don't
love me, Pixie!"
"No, I don't love you, but I have kept myself for you. I have closed my
heart to every other thought. I _would_ have loved you if you had
needed me. Nothing, nothing in the world could have made me deceive
you!"
"I knew it! We both knew it! Honor said--"
"_Honor_!" Pixie's cry rang sharp. "Is it Honor? Honor Ward?"
Somehow the knowledge seemed an additional hurt; she sat down on a chair
and clasped her cold hands. The brain flashed back memories of
occasions dating back to the very beginning of Stanor's life in America,
when his name and Honor's had been coupled together. "Honor Ward and
I." "Stanor Vaughan and I." ... Memories of an earlier occasion still
when Honor had said with _empressement_. "You can trust me, Pixie!"
Even then, had she foreseen what might happen--even then, with her
knowledge of her own character and Stanor's, seen danger ahead? Well,
Honor _had_ been loyal! From Stanor's manner, even more than his words,
it was obvious that had there been no impediment in the way as regards
her own wishes, yet she had refused him, had sent him home to keep his
troth. After that first sharp moment Pixie had no coldness in her heart
towards Honor Ward.
Stanor was talking, moving restlessly to and fro, telling the story of
the past years in jerky, disconnected sentences, blaming himself,
exonerating Honor. The sound of his words penetrated to Pixie's brain,
but not the sense. It seemed to her useless to listen; there was
nothing more to be said.
Suddenly she rose from her seat with an air of decision.
"I think you had better go. Bridgie, my sister--Mrs Victor--is here.
I would rather you didn't see her. She will be angry; they will all be
angry. They are fond of me, you see; and they will think I have been
humiliated. I am _not_ humiliated! No one can humiliate me but myself;
but just at first they won't be reasonable. ... Will you please go?"
"Pixie, don't think about me ... think of yourself! I will leave it to
you to tell your own story.--I have asked you to marry me, and you have
refused. ... Tell them that ... tell them that _you_ refused, that it
was _your_ doing, not mine--"
The glance of the grey eyes gave him a hot tingling of shame.
"You don't understand," said Pixie softly. "I am _proud_ of being the
faithful one! You don't understand..." She laid her hand on the door,
but Stanor stopped her with another question--
"And--Honor? What shall I say to Honor? She thinks so much of you.
She'll do nothing without your consent. Some day when she comes to
London ... will you ... see her, Pixie?"
Pixie shook her head.
"It would hurt us both, and do no good. Give her my love. As for you--
I can't give her what is not mine. ... You belong to _her_, so there's
nothing more to be said. ... I hope you will make her happy."
"I will--I will! At this moment I seem to you an unmitigated scoundrel,
but things will be different. ... We shall settle in America. I will
help her with her work. We'll work together. I'd give my life for her
... I _will_ give it! I'll make amends..." He stood still, waiting as
if there were still more to be said. "My uncle will be angry, but it is
his doing. If it had not been for him, we should have been married
years ago. He shouldn't blame me for what he has brought about. His is
the blame. If I see him--_when_ I see him--can I say anything from
you?"
"Tell him," said Pixie clearly, "that I am grateful to him. _His is the
praise_!"