“—TO GAIN, OR LOSE IT ALL”
“Take your courage in both hands” Helen had said to him, and he was
doing so; but Johnny Everard knew himself for a coward at this moment.
He felt tongue-tied, more than usually awkward, terribly and shamefully
nervous. Yet the grey eyes were on his face, and he knew that he must
speak, must put all to the hazard. And he knew also that if to-day he
lost her, it would be the biggest and the blackest sorrow of his life,
something that he would never live down, never forget.
Oh, it was worth fighting for, worth taking his courage in both hands
for, this girl with the sweet, serious face and the tender mouth, the
great, enquiring, yet trusting grey eyes. He had seen her cold,
stately, a little unapproachable, but he had never seen scorn in those
eyes. He had never seen the red lips curled with contempt. He knew
nothing of her in this guise, as another man did.
And now the girl seemed to be all woman, tender, sympathetic, and the
courage came to him; he sate himself beside her and took her hand in
his, and it gave him hope that she did not draw it away.
What he said, how he said it, how he stumbled over his story of love
and devotion he never knew. But it was an honest story, a story that
did him honour, and did honour too to the woman he told it to.
“I love you, dear. I have loved you from the moment I first saw you. I
know you are high above me. I know what I am, an unlovely sort of
fellow, rough and—and not fit to touch your hand—” for, being deeply in
love, his opinion of himself had naturally sunk to zero. The perfection
of the beloved object always makes an honest man painfully conscious of
his own inferiority and unworthiness. And so it was with Johnny
Everard, this day beside the green pool. And the slim, cool hand was
not withdrawn.
“Johnny, what are you asking me? Why have you come here to me? What do
you want—of me?” she asked, yet did not look him in the face, but sat
with eyes resting on the placid water.
“Just to tell you that—to tell you how I love you, Joan.”
Another man had told her that; the echo of his words came back to her
from the past. How often those words of his had come back; she could
never forget them. Yet she told herself that she hated him who had
uttered them, hated him, for was he not a proved craven?
_(“If, in telling you that I love you, is a sin fast all forgiveness, I
glory in it. I take not one word of it back.”)_
And now another, a worthier, better man, was telling her the same
story, holding her hand, and, she knew, looking into her face; yet her
eyes did not meet his.
And, listening to him, her heart grew more bitter than ever before to
the man who had uttered those words she would never forget, bitter
against him, yet more against herself. For she was conscious of shame
and anger—at her woman’s weakness, at the folly of which her woman’s
heart was capable.
“I know I am not fit for you, not good enough for you, Joan. There
isn’t a man living who would be—but—I love you—dear, and with God’s
help I would try to make you a happy woman.”
Manly words, honest and sincere, she knew, as must be all that this man
said and did—a man to rely on, a very tower of strength; a man to
protect her, a man to whom she could take her troubles and her secrets,
knowing full well that he would not fail her.
And while these thoughts passed in her mind she sat there silently, her
hand in his, and never thought to draw it away.
“Joan, will you be my wife, dear? I am asking for more than I could
ever deserve. There is nothing about me that makes me worthy of that
great happiness and honour, save one thing—my love for you.”
“And yet,” she said, and broke her silence for the first time, “there
is one question that you do not ask me, Johnny.”
“One question?”
“You do not ask me if I love you!”
“How can I ask for the impossible, the unlikely? There is nothing in me
for such a girl as you to love.”
“There is much in you for any woman to love. There is honesty and truth
and bravery, and a clean sweet mind. I know all that, I know that you
are a good man, Johnny. I know that; but oh, I do not love you!”
“I know,” he said sadly. “I know that.” And his hand seemed to slip
away from hers.
“And you would not—not take me—Johnny, without love?” she asked, and
her voice trembled.
“Joan, I—I don’t understand. I am a foolish, dense fellow, dear, and I
don’t understand!”
She turned to him, and now her eyes met his frankly, and never had he
seen them so soft, so tender, so filled with a strange and wonderful
light, the light that is born of tenderness and sympathy and
kindliness.
“Would you make me your wife, Johnny, knowing that I—I do not love you
as a woman should love the man she takes for her husband.”
“I—I would try to teach you, dear. I would try to win a little of your
heart.”
“And that would content you, Johnny?”
“It must. I dare not ask too much, and I—I—love you so!”
_(“I glory in it. I take not one word of it lack!”)_
Hateful words, words she could never forget, that came back to torture
and fill her with a sense of shame. Strange that they were dinning in
her memory, even now.
_(“I glory in it. I take not one word back!”)_
And then suddenly she made a gesture, as to fling off remembrance. She
turned more fully to him, and her eyes met his frankly.
“I do not love you, dear, as a woman should love the man she mates
with; but I like you. I honour you and trust you, and if—if you will
take me as I am, not asking for too much, not asking, dear, for more
than I can give—”
“Joan,” he said, “my Joan!”
She bent her head.
“If you will take me—as I am, not asking for more than I can give,
then—then I will come to you, if you will have it so. But oh, my dear,
you are worth more than this, far more than this!”
He lifted her hand and held it to his lips, the only embrace that in
his humility he dare offer her. And even while she felt his lips upon
her hand, there came back to her memory eyes that glowed with love and
passion, a deep voice that shook with feeling—
_(“I glory in it, and take not one word of it back!”)_