"Oh, is it our turn at last? I am glad!"
Betty Derwent raised eyes of absolute honesty to the man who had just
come to her side, and laid her hand with obvious alacrity upon his arm.
"You don't seem to be enjoying yourself," he said.
"I'm not!" she declared, with vehemence. "It's perfectly horrid. I hope
you're not wanting to dance, Major Herne? For I want to sit out,
and--and get cool, if possible."
"I want what you want," said Herne. "Shall we go outside?"
"Yes--no! I really don't know. I've only just come in. I want to get
away--right away. Can't you think of a quiet corner?"
"Certainly," said Herne, "if it's all one to you where you go."
"I should like to run away," the girl said impetuously, "right away from
everybody--except you."
"That's very good of you," said Herne, faintly smiling.
The hand that rested on his arm closed with an agitated pressure.
"Oh, no, it isn't!" she assured him. "It's quite selfish. I--I am like
that, you know. Where are we going?"
"Upstairs," said Herne.
"Upstairs!" She glanced at him in surprise, but he offered no
explanation. They were already ascending.
But when they had mounted one flight of stairs, and were beginning to
mount a second, the girl's eyes flashed understanding.
"Major Herne, you're a real friend in need!"
"Think so?" said Herne. "Perhaps--at heart--I am as selfish as you
are."
"Oh, I don't mind that," she rejoined impulsively. "You are all selfish,
every one of you, but--thank goodness!--you don't all want the same
thing."
Montague Herne raised his brows a little.
"Quite sure of that?"
"Quite sure," said Betty vigorously. "I always know." She added with
apparent inconsequence, "That's how it is we always get on so well. Are
you going to take me right out on to the ramparts? Are you sure there
will be no one else there?"
"There will be no one where we are going," he said.
She sighed a sigh of relief.
"How good! We shall get some air up there, too. And I want air--plenty
of it. I feel suffocated."
"Mind how you go!" said Herne. "These stairs are uneven."
They had come to a spiral staircase of stone. Betty mounted it
light-footed, Herne following close behind.
In the end they came to an oak door, against which the girl set her
hand.
"Major Herne! It's locked!"
"Allow me!" said Herne.
He had produced a large key, at which Betty looked with keen
satisfaction.
"You really are a wonderful person. You overcome all difficulties."
"Not quite that, I am afraid." Herne was smiling. "But this is a
comparatively simple matter. The key happens to be in my charge. With
your permission, we will lock the door behind us."
"Do!" she said eagerly. "I have never been at this end of the ramparts.
I believe I shall spend the rest of the evening here, where no one can
follow us."
"Haven't you any more partners?" asked Herne.
She showed him a full card with a little grimace.
"I have had such an awful experience. I am going to cut the rest."
He smiled a little.
"Rather hard on the rest. However----"
"Oh, don't be silly!" she said impatiently. "It isn't like you."
"No," said Herne.
He spoke quietly, almost as if he were thinking of something else. They
had passed through the stone doorway, and had emerged upon a flagged
passage that led between stone walls to the ramparts. Betty passed along
this quickly, mounted the last flight of steps that led to the
battlements, and stood suddenly still.
A marvellous scene lay spread below them in the moonlight--silent land
and whispering sea. The music of the band in the distant ballroom rose
fitfully--such music as is heard in dreams. Betty stood quite motionless
with the moonlight shining on her face. She looked like a nymph caught
up from the shimmering water.
Impulsively at length she turned to the man beside her.
"Shall I tell you what has been happening to me to-night?"
"If you really wish me to know," said Herne.
She jerked her shoulder with a hint of impatience.
"I feel as if I must tell someone, and you are as safe, as any one I
know. I have danced with six men so far, and out of those six three have
asked me to marry them. It's been almost like a conspiracy, as if they
were doing it for a wager. Only, two of them were so horribly in earnest
that it couldn't have been that. Major Herne, why can't people be
reasonable?"
"Heaven knows!" said Herne.
She gave him a quick smile.
"If I get another proposal to-night I shall have hysterics. But I know I
am safe with you."
Herne was silent.
Betty gave a little shiver.
"You think me very horrid to have told you?"
"No," he answered deliberately, "I don't. I think that you were
extraordinarily wise."
She laughed with a touch of wistfulness.
"I have a feeling that if I quite understood what you meant, I shouldn't
regard that as a compliment."
"Very likely not." Herne's dark face brooded over the distant water. He
did not so much as glance at the girl beside him, though her eyes were
studying him quite frankly.
"Why are you so painfully discreet?" she said suddenly. "Don't you know
that I want you to give me advice?"
"Which you won't take," said Herne.
"I don't know. I might. I quite well might. Anyhow, I should be
grateful."
He rested one foot on the battlement, still not looking at her.
"If you took my advice," he said, "you would marry."
"Marry!" she said with a quick flush. "Why? Why should I?"
"You know why," said Herne.
"Really I don't. I am quite happy as I am."
"Quite?" he said.
She began to tap her fingers against the stonework. There was something
of nervousness in the action.
"I couldn't possibly marry any one of the men who proposed to me
to-night," she said.
"There are other men," said Herne.
"Yes, I know, but--" She threw out her arms suddenly with a gesture that
had in it something passionate. "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, damnable 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 buttress 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 space 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
friendship, 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.
"I shall come back to you, Betty," he said.
"Oh, you will!" she said very earnestly. "You will!"
"I shall," said Montague Herne; and he said it as a man whose resolution
no power on earth might turn.