Man and Maid Part 14

"You brought the light of the world," he said, and caught her hand and held it. There was a silence. A fisherman pa.s.sing along the sea-wall gave them good-day. "What made you come to Lymchurch?" he said presently, and his hand lay lightly on hers. She hesitated, and looked down at her hand and his.

"I knew you were here," she said. His eyes met hers. "I always meant to see you again some day. And you knew me at once. That was so nice of you."

"You have not changed," he said; "your face has not changed, only you are older, and----"

"I'm twenty-two; you needn't reproach me with it. Yours is the same to a month."

He moved on his elbow a little nearer to her.

"Has it ever occurred to you," he asked, looking out to sea, "that you and I were made for each other?"

"No; never."

He looked out to sea still, and his face clouded heavily.

"Ah--no--don't look like that, dear; it never occurred to me--I think I must have always known it somehow, only----"

"Only what?--do you really?--only what?" A silence. Then, "Only what?"

he asked again.

"Only I was so afraid it would never occur to _you_!"

There was no one on the wide, bare sands save the discreet artist--their faces were very near.

"We shall be very, very poor, I'm afraid," he said presently.

"I can go on teaching."

"No"--his voice was decided--"my wife shan't work--at least not anywhere but in our home. You won't mind playing at love in a cottage for a bit, will you? I shall get on now I've something to work for. Oh, my dear, thank G.o.d I've enough for the cottage! When will you marry me? We've nothing to wait for, no relations to consult, no settlements to draw up.

All that's mine is thine, la.s.sie."

"And all that's mine--Oh! Stephen!"

For, with a scattering of shingle, a man dropped from the sea-wall two yards from them.

The situation admitted of no disguise, for Miss Rainham's head was on Mr Dornington's shoulder. They sprang up.

"Why, Stephen!" echoed Andrew, "this--this is good of you! You remember Rosamund? We have just found out that----" But Rosamund had turned, and was walking quickly away over the sand.

Stephen filled a pipe and lighted it before he said: "You've made good use of your time, old man. I congratulate you." His tone was cold.

"There is no reason why I should not make good use of my time,"

Dornington answered, and his tone had caught the chill of the other's.

"None whatever. You have secured the prize, and I congratulate you.

Whether it's fair to the girl is another question."

In moments of agitation a man instinctively feels for his pipe. It was now Dornington's turn to fill and light.

"Of course it's your own affair," said Guillemot, chafing at the silence, "but I think you might have given the heiress a chance.

However, it's each for himself, I suppose, and----"

"Heiress?"

"Yes, the heiress--the Millionairess, if you prefer it. I've been looking into her affairs: it _is_ just about a million."

"Rather cheap chaff, isn't it?"

"It's a very lucky thing for you," said Stephen savagely. "Perhaps I ought not to grudge it to you. But I must say, Dornington--I see we look at the thing differently--but I must say, I shouldn't have cared to grab at such luck myself."

Dornington had thrust his hands into his pockets, and stood looking at his friend.

"I see," he said slowly. "And her fortune is really so much? I didn't think it had been so much as that. Yes. Well, Guillemot, it's no good making a row about it; I don't want to quarrel with my best friend. Go along to my place, will you? Or stay: come and let me introduce you to Miss Grant, and you can walk up with her; she'll show you where I live.

I'm going for a bit of a walk."

Five minutes later Stephen, in response to Rosamund's beckoning hand at the window, was following Miss Grant up the narrow flagged path leading to the cottage which Rosamund had taken. And ten minutes later Andrew Dornington was striding along the road to the station with a Gladstone bag in his hands.

Stephen lunched at the cottage. The girls served the lunch themselves; they had no hired service in the little cottage. Rosamund exerted herself to talk gaily.

As the meal ended, a fair-haired child stood in the door that opened straight from the street into the sitting-room, after the primitive fashion of Lymchurch.

"'E gave me a letter for you," said the child, and Rosamund took it, giving in exchange some fruit from the pretty disordered table.

"Excuse me," she said, with the rose in her cheeks because she saw the hand-writing was the hand-writing she had seen in many pencilled verses.

She read the letter, frowned, read it again. "Constance, you might get the coffee."

Constance went out. Then the girl turned on her guest.

"This is _your_ doing," she said with a concentrated fury that brought him to his feet facing her. "Why did you come and meddle! You've told him I was rich--the very thing I didn't mean him to know till--till he couldn't help himself. You've spoilt everything! And now he's gone--and he'll never come back. Oh, I hope you will suffer for this some day.

You will, if there's any justice in the world!"

He looked as though he suffered for it even now, but when he spoke his voice was equable.

"I am extremely sorry," he said, "but after all, there's very little harm done. You should have warned me that you meant to play a comedy, and I would have taken any part you a.s.signed me. However, you've succeeded. He evidently 'loves you for yourself alone.' Write and tell him to come back: he'll come."

"How little you know him," she said, "after all these years! Even I know him better than that. That was why I pretended not to be rich. Directly I knew about the money I made up my mind to find him and try if I could make him care. I know it sounds horrid; I don't mind, it's true. And I had done it; and then you came. Oh, I hope I shall never see you again!

I will never speak to you again! No, I don't mean that----" She hid her face in her hands.

"Rosamund, try to forgive me. I didn't know, I couldn't know. I will bring him back to you--I swear it! Only trust me."

"You can't," she said; "it's all over."

"Let me tell you something. If you hadn't had this money--but if you hadn't had this money I should never have seen you. But I have thought of nothing but you ever since that day you came to the Temple. I don't tell you this to annoy you, only to show you that I would do anything in the world to prevent you from being unhappy. Forgive me, dear! Oh, forgive me!"

"It's no good," she said; but she gave him her hand. When Constance Grant came back with the coffee, she found Mr Guillemot alone looking out of the window at the sunflowers and the hollyhocks.

"What is the matter?" she asked.