"It will be difficult to believe--but if you will tell me just once
quite simply and plainly, I will take your word, Una. Don't protest,
please--tell me truthfully, once for all: did you, or did you not, know
I loved you with all my heart?"
I wanted to say "No." In a sense I could have said it truthfully
enough, for I had no definite knowledge, but I remembered what Lorna had
told me about the heroine in the novel; I remembered Mrs Forbes's
wistful manner, and oh, a dozen little incidents too small to be written
down, when Wallace's own manner had told the truth only too plainly. He
was staring at me, poor boy, with his wan, miserable eyes, and I could
not tell a lie. I began to cry in a feeble, helpless kind of way, and
faltered out, "I--I thought you did, but I couldn't be sure. You know I
couldn't be sure, and it was only for a little while! I am going home
so soon that I didn't think it could matter."
He leant forward, leaning his head on his hands.
"Shall I tell you how much it matters?" he asked huskily. "It matters
just this, that you have spoilt my life! There was not a happier, more
contented fellow living than I was--before you came. I loved my work,
and loved my home. I intended to succeed in my profession, and the
future was full of interest. I would not have changed places with any
man on earth. Now!" he held out his right hand and snapped his fingers
expressively, "it is over; the zest is out of it all if you are not
there. If I had met you anywhere else it might have been easier, but
you have come right into the middle of my life, and if I would I shall
not be able to forget you. Every morning when I come down to breakfast
I shall look across the table and imagine you sitting facing me; I shall
see you wherever I go--like a ghost--in every room in the house, in
everything I do. That is the price I have to pay for your amusement.
You have made a fool of me, you whom I thought the type of everything
that was true and womanly. You knew that I loved you, but it didn't
matter to you what I suffered. You were going home soon--you would not
see it. It didn't matter!"
"No, no, no!" I cried in agony. "It isn't true. I am bad enough, but
not a heartless monster. I will tell you the whole truth. I was
miserable myself when I came here; ill and tired out, and sore because--
because they didn't care for me at home as much as I wanted. I always
want people to like me. I did at school--Lorna will tell you that I
did; and when you were nice to me it cheered me up, and made me happy
again. I never dreamt that it was serious until a little time ago--last
week--and even then I did not think you could possibly want to marry
me--you were too young--you had no home--"
"No, that is true. I am no match for Miss Sackville. I was a fool to
forget it. Thank you for reminding me," he interrupted bitterly.
Poor boy--oh, poor boy, he looked so miserable--it made me ache to see
his white, changed face. He looked so handsome, too; so much more of a
man than he had ever done before. I looked at him and wondered why it
was that I could not care for him as he wished. Had I been too hasty in
deciding that it was impossible? He wanted me, and no one else did; and
it would be nice to be engaged and have someone to love me best of all.
Perhaps I should grow to love him too; I always do like people who like
me; and Lorna would be so pleased. She would be my real sister, and
could come and stay with me in my own home. I was so upset and
miserable, so stung by Wallace's taunt about his poverty, that I was
just in the mind to be reckless. His hand lay limply by his side, and
in a sudden gush of tenderness and pity I slid my arm beneath it and
said softly, "Don't be cross with me! I never thought for one moment if
you were poor or rich. That doesn't matter a bit. If I have made you
miserable, I am miserable too. If you want me to be engaged to you--I
will, and I'll try to like you. Please, please do not look like that!
If I promise it will be all right, and you will forgive me for being so
thoughtless, won't you, Wallace?"
He turned his head and stared at me steadily. The anger died out of his
face, but he looked dreadfully sad.
"Poor Una," he said, "how little you understand! Do you think I am such
a cad as to accept such an offer as that? I love you and want you to be
happy, not miserable as you would certainly be if you were engaged to a
man you had to `try to like.' Thank you for the offer all the same. It
will comfort me a little to remember that at any rate you felt kindly
towards me. It is no use saying any more. My dream is over, and I
shall have to bear the awakening as well as I can. A fellow cannot
expect to have everything his own way. I don't want to whine. Shall we
go back to the house?"
"In a minute--one minute--only tell me first that you forgive me, and if
there is nothing at all that I can do to help you, and show how
wretchedly, wretchedly sorry I am!"
"Forgive you?" he repeated sadly. "I love you, Una. I can forgive you,
I expect, a good deal more easily than you will forgive yourself. Yes,
there is something you can do--if you ever discover that another poor
fellow is in love with you--and you are the sort of girl whom men will
love--remember me and spare him this experience. Don't go on being
`nice' to him. That kind of niceness is the worst form of cruelty."
I hung my head and could not answer. To think that "that boy," as I had
contemptuously called him, should have behaved in such a manly, generous
fashion! I felt utterly ashamed and despicable. It was he who is a
thousand times too good for me!