Millicent Chyne, like Guy, was hampered at the outset of life by theories upon it. Experience, the fashionable novel, and modern cynicism had taught her to expect little from human nature—a dangerous lesson, for it eases responsibility, and responsibility is the Ten Commandments rolled into a compact whole, suitable for the pocket.
She expected of no man—not even of Jack—that perfect faithfulness in every word and thought which is read of in books. And it is one of the theories of the day that what one does not expect one is not called upon to give. Jack, she reflected, was too much a man of the world to expect her to sit and mope alone. She was apparently incapable of seeing the difference between that pastime and sitting on the seawall behind a large flowering currant-tree with a man who did not pretend to hide the fact that he was in love with her. Some women are thus.
“I do not know if you have learnt much,” he answered. “But I have.”
“What have you learnt?” she asked in a low voice, half-fascinated by the danger into which she knew that she was running.
“That I love you,” he answered, standing squarely in front of her, and announcing the fact with a deliberate honesty which was rather startling. “I was not sure of it before, so I stayed away from you for three weeks; but now I know for certain.”
“Oh, you mustn’t say that!”
She rose hastily and turned away from him. There was in her heart a sudden feeling of regret. It was the feeling that the keenest sportsman sometimes has when some majestic monarch of the forest falls before his merciless rifle—a sudden passing desire that it might be undone.
“Why not?” he asked. He was desperately in earnest, and that which made him a good sportsman—an unmatched big-game hunter, calm and self-possessed in any strait—gave him a strange deliberation now, which Millicent Chyne could not understand. “Why not?”
“I do not know—because you mustn’t.”
And in her heart she wanted him to say it again.
“I am not ashamed of it,” he said, “and I do not see why I should not say it to you—or to anyone else, so far as that goes.”
“No, never!” she cried, really frightened. “To me it does not matter so much. But to no one else—no, never! Aunt Marian must not know it—nor Sir John.”
“I cannot see that it is any business of Sir John’s. Of course, Lady Cantourne would have liked you to marry a title; but if you cared for me she would be ready to listen to reason.”
In which judgment of the good lady he was no doubt right—especially if reason spoke with the voice of three thousand pounds per annum.
“Do you care for me?” he asked, coming a little closer.
There was a whole world of gratified vanity and ungratified curiosity for her in the presence of this strong man at her elbow. It was one of the supreme triumphs of her life, because he was different from the rest. He was for her what his first tiger had been for him. The danger that he might come still nearer had for her a sense of keen pleasure. She was thoroughly enjoying herself, and the nearest approach that men can experience to the joy that was hers is the joy of battle.
“I cannot answer that—not now.”
And the little half-shrinking glance over her shoulder was a low-minded, unmaidenly invitation. But he was in earnest, and he was, above all, a gentleman. He stood his ground a yard away from her.
“Then when,” he asked—“when will you answer me?”
She stood with her back turned towards him, looking out over the smooth waters of the Solent, where one or two yachts and a heavy black schooner were creeping up on the tide before the morning breeze. She drummed reflectively with her fingers on the low stone wall. Beneath them a few gulls whirled and screamed over a shoal of little fish. One of the birds had a singular cry, as if it were laughing to itself.
“You said just now,” Millicent answered at length, “that you were not sure yourself—not at first—and therefore you cannot expect me to know all at once.”
“You would know at once,” he argued gravely, “if it was going to be no. If you do not say no now, I can only think that it may be yes someday. And”—he came closer—he took the hand that hung at her side—conveniently near—“and I don’t want you to say no now. Don’t say no! I will wait as long as you like for yes. Millicent, I would rather go on waiting, and thinking that it is going to be yes, even if it is no after all.”
She said nothing, but she left her hand in his.
“May I go on thinking that it will be yes until I come back?”
“I cannot prevent your thinking, can I?” she whispered, with a tender look in her eyes.
“And may I write to you?”
She shook her head.
“Well—I—I—Now and then,” he pleaded. “Not often. Just to remind you of my existence.”
She gave a little laugh, which he liked exceedingly, and remembered afterwards.
“If you like,” she answered.
At this moment Lady Cantourne’s voice was heard in the distance, calling them.
“There!” exclaimed Millicent. “We must go at once. And no one—no one, mind—must know of this.”
“No one shall know of it,” he answered.
X
Loango
Faithful and hopeful, wise in charity,
Strong in grave peace, in pity circumspect.
Those who for their sins have been to Loango will scarcely care to have its beauties recalled to memory. And to such as have not yet visited the spot one can only earnestly recommend a careful avoidance.
Suffice it to say, therefore, that there is such a place, and the curious
