I AM YOURS.
"I knew thee strong and quiet--like the hills;
I knew thee apt to pity, brave to endure."
--R. L. S.
Paul Wyndham's hopes were on the ascendant at last. After a full year
of waiting, he saw himself drawing steadily nearer to his hour of
reward.
He studied Honor Meredith as a man only studies that on which his
life's happiness depends; and during the past few weeks he had become
aware of a mysterious change in the girl's bearing. Her beauty--which
had seemed to him so complete--was now unmistakably enhanced by some
transformation within. Her whole nature seemed to have become more
highly sensitised. Her colour came and went upon the least
provocation; her frank friendliness was veiled by a shy reserve, that
had in it no hint of coldness; and, more significant than all, her
eyes no longer met his own with that disconcerting directness of gaze
which had sealed his lips when they were upon the verge of speech.
For all his modesty, Wyndham could not fail to interpret these signs
according to his heart's desire; and when, on the night of Evelyn's
accident, Honor promised him an early ride, prefaced by _chota
hazri_[26] in the verandah, he told himself that he need wait no
longer--that the great moment of his life had come at last.
[26] Early breakfast.
On the stroke of seven he mounted the verandah steps. A camp table,
set with fruit, freshly made toast, and a tea-tray, awaited him in a
shadowed corner. Two thick bamboo blinds, let down between the wide
arches, converted that end of the verandah into a room, its low-toned
coolness broken only by an arrow of sunlight, shooting through a gap
in one of the blinds, like a streak of powdered gold. Wyndham's eyes
lingered approvingly on every detail of the homely scene; and he
caught himself wondering what his sensations would be half an hour
hence; what words he should speak to her when the dreaded, longed-for
moment arrived.
A light footstep reached his ears; and he turned sharply round to find
her standing in the open doorway.
She did not come forward at once, nor did she speak. For the man's
face was transfigured. She beheld, in that instant, his unveiled heart
and spirit--foresaw the ordeal that awaited her.
Noting her hesitation, he came forward with unconcealed eagerness.
"Good morning," she murmured mechanically. There seemed nothing else
that could be said.
Then a wave of colour surged into her face; for he kept the hand she
gave him, and drew her towards the privacy of the tea-table. She would
have sacrificed much at that moment for the power to speak to prevent
the pain she was bound to inflict; but her heart seemed to be beating
in her throat; and she endured, as best she might, the controlled
intensity of his look and tone.
"You know--surely you know what I find it so hard to say--I love
you,--Honor, with all there is of me. I want you--God knows how I want
you! And--you----?"
He bent his head to receive the answer that need not be spoken in
words. But all vestige of colour was gone from her face, and the
unsteadiness of her beautiful mouth cut him to the heart.
"Oh, forgive me!" she pleaded. "I have been thoughtless,
selfish,--blind. But you seemed so entirely my friend--I did not
guess. I would have given the world to have spared you--_this_."
He straightened himself like a man under the lash; but he did not
relinquish her hand.
"I can't let you reproach yourself," he said quietly, "because I
misunderstood signs that seemed to tell me your heart was awake at
last. But now--now you know how it is with me, at least you will let
me hope----?"
"I wish I might," she answered, so low that he could scarcely hear.
"But--it's impossible!"
"Am I so entirely unworthy--unlovable?"
"No, oh no. It is not that."
"D'you mean--I was not mistaken. Is there--any one else?"
"Yes."
It was impossible to lie to him, and the blood rushed back into her
face at the confession.
"Is he _here_?" Paul demanded, with sudden energy.
"You mustn't ask any questions about--him--about it, please."
"Only this one. Shall you--marry him?"
"No. Never."
Sheer incredulity held him silent; and when he spoke there was
rebellion in his tone.
"Your life and my own are to remain broken, unfulfilled, because
of--this incomprehensible thing?"
"There is nothing else possible."
He relinquished her hand at that, giving it back to her, as it were,
with a quiet finality of renunciation that shattered her self-control.
She sank into a chair and hid her face in a vain attempt to conceal
the tears that came in spite of herself.
He stood beside her for several seconds in a heart-broken silence;
then gently touched her arm.
"Honor--Honor, is it really so impossible--as you think? I tell you
plainly I can't understand----"
She uncovered her face and looked up at him.
"Can any one ever understand--this sort of thing? Isn't it a force
outside the control of reason, of even the strongest will?"
"You are right," he answered gravely; and sitting down leaned towards
her, his elbows on the table. "But there remains the fact that sooner
than lose you outright, I am willing to marry you--on any terms. If
you have no hope for yourself, could you not bring yourself to
partially fulfil mine? Will you--in mercy to me--reconsider your
decision?"
She looked up quickly with parted lips; but his raised hand enjoined
silence.
"My suggestion deserves thinking over for a few minutes, if no longer.
And in the meanwhile--" he smiled with a touch of his old humorous
resignation to things in general--"we might do worse than have some
_chota hazri_. What a brute I was to upset you before you had had a
morsel to eat!"
She shook her head, with a faint reflection of his smile.
"I don't want anything to eat."
"Oh yes, you do! I suppose I must set you an example of common-sense
behaviour."
He peeled two bananas with deliberate care, and set one on her plate.
Then he lifted the cosy.
"That tea must be strong by this time; but the water's hot, and you
can doctor it with that. Now--begin."
He himself began upon his banana, and she glanced at him in
astonishment, not untinged with admiration, at his effortless
transition from controlled passion to the commonplaces of everyday
life. They got through the short meal after a fashion; and both were
devoutly thankful when the demands of common-sense had been fulfilled.
Wyndham rose, and lit a cigarette.
"Now, I'll leave you to yourself for five minutes," he announced. "It
is getting late. But before we go for our ride this matter must be
settled once for all." He laid both hands on the table and looked
steadily into her face. "You are the most just-minded woman I know.
Look all round the question before you decide. Try to realise a little
what it will mean for me to give up all hope. In losing you, I lose
everything. There can be no question of any one else for me. Take me
or--leave me, I am _yours_ for the rest of my life."
He turned away to save her from the necessity of answering, and walked
to the far end of the verandah, leaving her alone with the strongest
temptation she had yet experienced--the temptation to trample on her
own imperious love, and to accept this man's selfless devotion in the
hope that it might one day conquer and monopolise her heart.
Had marriage with Wyndham entailed immediate removal from the
atmosphere of Theo Desmond, hesitancy might have ended in
capitulation. But life-long intimacy with him, as the wife of his
closest friend, was unthinkable for a moment; and if by the wildest
possibility Paul should ever suspect the truth----!
She shuddered and glanced in his direction.
"Major Wyndham," she said softly.
He hastened back to her at once. But one look at her face sufficed.
The eagerness faded from his eyes, leaving them cold as a winter sky
after sunset.
"It was wrong of me to keep you in suspense even for a few minutes,"
she said, her gaze riveted on the table. "Please forgive me that I am
driven to hurt you so, and please believe that I do realise what I am
losing----"
"The loss is--not yours," he said on a note of restrained quietness:
and in the stillness that ensued, the impatient horses could be heard
champing their bits.
He sank into his chair with a gesture of unfeigned weariness; and she
glanced at his face. Its mingled pain and patience pierced her heart.
But when at last he spoke, his voice was natural and controlled.
"I have only one word more to say. I confess I have not the courage to
let you go altogether out of my life. Since nothing else is possible,
will you at least accept me as your permanent and--devoted friend?"
She turned upon him in frank surprise.
"Do you mean that--really? _Can_ you do it? Men always say----"
He smiled a trifle bitterly.
"Do they? No doubt they are right--for themselves. But I know I have
the strength to accept what I ask, or I would not dare ask it. You
won't refuse me that much, will you--Honor?"
"No, indeed, no," she answered, greatly moved. "I can deny you nothing
that I am not forced to deny you--Paul."
"Ah, there is no woman in the world to compare with you! Let me say it
this once, as I may never tell you so again."
He rose in speaking, braced his shoulders, and stood looking down upon
her, a strangely glad light in his eyes.
"I have _not_ lost you, after all," he said.
She rose also, and gave him both her hands. "No. You have gained
me--for good. I--care now ever so much more than I did when I came out
to you this morning."
"You _do_?"
"Yes--I do."
He drew her towards him. "Promise me this much," he said, "that if you
should ever find it possible to--marry me on any conditions--even the
hardest--you will tell me so at once, because after this morning I
shall never open my lips on the subject again."
"I promise. Only--you must not let yourself hope."
He sighed. "Very well, I will shut out hope, since you command it. But
I shall still have love and faith to live upon. You cannot deprive me
of those--Honor. Now shall we go for our ride? Or would you rather go
in and rest after all this?"
"No. We will have our ride. I can rest later if I need it."
"Let me put you up then. Come."
And she came without a word.