THE SECOND BEST
Sara laid down her pen and very soberly re-read the letter she had just
written. It was to Tim Durward, telling him the engagement between them
must be at an end, and its accomplishment had been a matter of sore
embarrassment and mental struggle. Sara hated giving pain, and she
knew that this letter, taking from Tim all--and it was so painfully
little--that she had ever given him, must bring very bitter pain to the
man to whom, as friend and comrade, she was deeply attached.
It was barely a month since she had promised to marry him, and it was a
difficult, ungracious task, and very open to misapprehension, to write
and rescind that promise.
Yet it was characteristic of Sara that no other alternative presented
itself to her. Now that she was sure Garth cared for her--whether their
mutual love must remain for ever unfulfilled, unconsummated, or not--she
knew that she could never give herself to any other man.
She folded and sealed the letter, and then sat quietly contemplating
the consequences that it might entail. Almost inevitably it would mean
a complete estrangement from the Durwards. Elisabeth would be very
unlikely ever to forgive her for her treatment of Tim; even kindly
hearted Major Durward could not but feel sore about it; and since Garth
had not asked her to marry him--and showed no disposition to do any such
thing--they would almost certainly fail to understand or sympathize with
her point of view.
Sara sighed as she dropped her missive into the letter-box. It meant an
end to the pleasant and delightful friendship which had come into her
life just at the time when Patrick Lovell's death had left it very empty
and desolate.
Two days of suspense ensued while she restlessly awaited Tim's reply.
Then, on the third day, he came himself, his eyes incredulous, his face
showing traces of the white night her letter had cost him.
He was very gentle with her. There was no bitterness or upbraiding, and
he suffered her explanation with a grave patience that hurt her more
than any reproaches he could have uttered.
“I believed it was only I who cared, Tim,” she told him. “And so I felt
free to give you what you wanted--to be your wife, if you cared to
take me, knowing I had no love to give. I thought”--she faltered a
little--“that I might as well make _someone_ happy! But now that I know
he loves me as I love him, I couldn't marry any one else, could I?”
“And are you going to marry him--this man you love?”
“I don't know. He has not asked me to marry him.”
“Perhaps he is married already?”
Sara met his eyes frankly.
“I don't know even that.”
Tim made a fierce gesture of impatience.
“Is it playing fair--to keep you in ignorance like that?” he demanded.
Sara laughed suddenly.
“Perhaps not. But somehow I don't mind. I am sure he must have a good
reason--or else”--with a flash of humour--“some silly man's reason that
won't be any obstacle at all!”
“Supposing”--Tim bent over her, his face rather white--“supposing you
find--later on--that there is some real obstacle--that he can't marry
you, would you come to me--then, Sara?”
She shook her head.
“No, Tim, not now. Don't you see, now that I know he cares for
me--everything is altered. I'm not free, now. In a way, I belong to
him. Oh! How can I explain? Even though we may never marry, there is a
faithfulness of the spirit, Tim. It's--it's the biggest part of love,
really----”
She broke off, and presently she felt Tim's hands on her shoulders.
“I think I understand, dear,” he said gently. “It's just what I should
expect of you. It means the end of everything--everything that matters
for me. But--somehow--I would not have you otherwise.”
He did not stay very long after that. They talked together a little,
promising each other that their friendship should still remain unbroken
and unspoilt.
“For,” as Tim said, “if I cannot have the best that the world can
give--your love, Sara, I need not lose the second best--which is your
friendship.”
And Sara, watching him from the window as he strode away down the little
tiled path, wondered why love comes so often bearing roses in one hand
and a sharp goad in the other.