Rosa Mundi by Ethel May Dell (e books free to read .TXT) 📖

/> Once, rather suddenly, she moved to look at the watch on her wrist. It was drawing towards noon. She had sent no message to delay him. Would he have travelled by the night train? But she dismissed that conjecture as unlikely. Herne was not a man to do anything headlong. He would give her ample time. She almost wished--she checked the sigh that rose to her lips. No, it was better as it was. A man's ardour was different from a boy's; and she--she was a girl no longer. Her romance was dead.
A slight sound beside her, a footstep on the grass! She turned, looked, sprang to her feet. The vivid colour rushed up over her face.
"You!" she gasped, almost inarticulately.
He had come by the night train after all.
He came up to her quite quietly, with that leisureliness of gait that she remembered so well.
"Didn't you expect me?" he said.
She held out a hand that trembled.
"Yes, I--I knew you would come; only, you see, I hardly thought you would get here so soon."
"But you meant me to come?" he said.
His hand held hers closely, warmly, reassuringly. He looked into her face.
For a few seconds she evaded the look with a shyness beyond her control; then resolutely she mastered herself and met his eyes.
"Yes, I meant you to come. I am glad you are back. I--" She broke off suddenly, gazing at him in consternation. "Monty," she exclaimed, "you never told me you had been ill!"
He smiled at that, and her agitation began to subside.
"I am well again, Betty," he said.
"Oh, but you don't look it," she protested. "You look--you look as if you had suffered--horribly. Have you?"
He passed the question by. "At least, I have managed to come back again," he said, "as I promised."
"I--I am thankful to see you again," she faltered her shyness returning upon her. "I've been--desperately anxious."
"On my account?" said Herne.
She bent her head. "Yes."
"Lest I shouldn't come back?"
"Yes," she said again.
"But I told you I should," He was still holding her hand, trying to read her downcast face.
"Oh, I knew you would if you could," said Betty. "Only--I couldn't help thinking--of what you said about--about sacrificing substance to--shadow. It--was very wrong of me to send you."
She spoke unevenly, with obvious effort. She seemed determined that he should not have that glimpse into her soul which he so evidently desired.
"My dear Betty," he said, "I went on my own account as much as on yours. I think you forget that. Or are you remembering--and regretting--it?"
She had begun to tremble. He laid a steadying hand upon her shoulder.
"No," she said faintly. Then swiftly, impulsively, she raised her face. "Major Herne, I--I want to tell you something--before you say any more."
"What is it, Betty?" he said.
"Just this," she made answer, speaking very quickly. "I--I am not good enough for you. I haven't been--straight with you. I've been realizing it more and more ever since you went away. I--I'm quite despicable. I've been miserable about it--wretched--all the time you have been away."
Herne's face changed. A certain grimness came into it.
"But, my dear girl," he said, "you never pretended to be in love with me."
She drew a sharp breath of distress.
"I know," she said. "I know. And I let you go to that dreadful place, though I knew--before you went--that, whatever happened, it could make no difference to me. But I hadn't the courage to tell you the truth. After what passed between us that night, I felt--I couldn't. And so--and so--I let you go, even though I knew I was deceiving you. Oh, do forgive me if you can! I've had my punishment. I have been nearly mad with anxiety lest any harm should come to you."
"I suppose I ought to be grateful for that," Herne said. He still looked grim, but there was no anger about him. He had taken his hand from her shoulder, but he still held her trembling fingers in his quiet grasp. "Don't fret!" he said. "Where's the use? I shall get over it somehow. If you are quite sure you know your own mind, there is no more to be said." He spoke with no shadow of emotion. His eyes looked into hers with absolute steadiness. He even, after a moment, very faintly smiled. "Except good-bye!" he said. "And perhaps the sooner I say that the better."
But at this point Betty broke in upon him breathlessly, almost incoherently.
"Major Herne, I--I don't understand. You--you can say good-bye, of course--if you wish. But--it will be by your own choice if you do."
"What?" he said.
She snatched her hand suddenly from him.
"I suppose you mean to punish me, to make me pay for my--idiocy. You--you think--"
"I think that either you or I must be mad," said Herne.
"Then it's you!" flung back Betty half hysterically. "To imagine for one moment that I--that I meant--that!"
"Meant what?" A sudden note of sternness made itself heard in Herne's voice. He moved a step forward, and took her shoulders between his hands, looking at her closely, unsparingly. "Betty," he said, "let us at least understand one another! Tell me what you meant just now!"
She faced him defiantly
"I didn't mean anything."
He passed that by.
"Why did you ask my forgiveness?"
She made a sharp gesture of repudiation.
"What was there to forgive?" he insisted.
"I--I am not going to tell you," said Betty, with great distinctness.
Again he overlooked her open defiance.
"You are afraid. Why?"
"I'm not!" said Betty almost fiercely.
"You are afraid," he repeated deliberately, "afraid of my finding out--something. Betty, look at me!"
Her face was scarlet. She turned it swiftly from him.
"Let me go!"
"Look at me!" he repeated.
She began to pant. She was quivering between his hands like a wild thing caught. "Major Herne, it isn't fair of you! Let me go!"
"Never, Betty!" He spoke with sudden decision; but all the grimness had gone from his face. "You may as well give in, for I have you at my mercy. And I will be merciful if you do, but not otherwise."
"How dare you?" gasped Betty almost inarticulately.
"I dare do many things," said Montague Herne, with a smile that was not all mirthful. "How long have you left off crying for the moon? Tell me!"
"I won't tell you anything!" protested Betty.
"Yes, you will. I have got to know it. If you will only give in like a wise woman, you will find it much easier."
His voice held persuasion this time. For a little she made as if she would continue to resist him; then impulsively she yielded.
"Oh, Monty!" she said, with a sob; and the next moment was in his arms.
He held her close.
"Come!" he said. "You can tell me now."
"I--don't know," whispered Betty, her face hidden. "You--frightened me by being so ready to go away again. I couldn't help wondering if it had been just kindness that prompted you to come to me. It--I suppose it wasn't?" A startled note of interrogation sounded in her voice. She was trembling still.
"Betty, Betty!" he said.
"Forgive me!" she whispered back, "You see, I couldn't have endured that, because I--love you. No, wait; I haven't finished. I want you to know the truth. I've been sacrificing substance to shadow, reality to dreams, all my life--all my life. But that night--the night I took you into my confidence--you opened my eyes. I began to see what I was doing. But I hadn't the courage to tell you so, and it seemed not quite fair to Bobby so I held my peace.
"I let you go. But I knew--I knew before you went--that even if you found him, even if you brought him back, even if he cared for me still, I should have nothing to give him. My feeling for him was just a dream from which I had awakened. Oh, Monty, I was yours even then; and I kept it back. That was why I wanted your forgiveness."
Breathlessly she ended, and in silence he heard her out. He was holding her very closely to him, but his eyes looked beyond her, as though they searched a far horizon.
"Do you understand?" whispered Betty at last.
He moved, and the look in his eyes changed. It was as if the horizon narrowed.
"I understand," he said.
She lifted her face, with a gesture half shy, half confiding.
"Are you going to forgive me, Monty? I--I've paid a big price for my foolishness--bigger than you will ever know. I kept asking myself--asking myself--whatever I should do if you--if you brought him back."
"Poor child!" he said. "Poor little Betty!"
She clung to him suddenly.
"Oh, wasn't I an idiot? And yet, somehow, I feel so treacherous. Monty--Monty, you're sure he is dead?"
"Yes, he is dead," said Herne deliberately.
She drew a deep breath.
"I'm so thankful he never knew!" she said. "I--I don't suppose he really cared, do you? Not enough to spoil his life?"
"God knows!" said Montague Herne very gravely.
* * * * *


"Hullo!" said Betty's fellow-sportsman, making his appearance some time later. "Getting on for grub-time, eh? How have you got on? Why, I thought you came out to fish, and not to talk! Who on earth----"
"My _fiance_," said Betty quickly.
"Your--Hullo! Why, it's Major Herne! Delighted to see you! Had no idea you were in this country. Thought you were hunting big game somewhere in Africa."
"I was," said Herne. "I--had no luck. So I came home."
"Where--presumably--you found it! Congratulations! Betty, I'm pleased!"
"How nice of you!" said Betty.
"Yes, it is rather, all things considered. How ever, I suppose even I must regard it as a blessing in disguise. Perhaps, when you are married, you will kindly leave off breaking all our hearts for nothing!"
"Perhaps you will leave off being so foolish as to let them be broken," returned Betty, with spirit.
"Ah, perhaps! Not very likely though I fear. Hearts are tender things--eh, Major Herne? And when someone like Betty comes along there is sure to be some damage done. It's the penalty we have to pay for being only human."
"Ah, well, you soon get over it," said Betty quickly.
"How do you know that? I may perhaps, if I'm lucky; but there are exceptions to every rule. Some of us go on paying the penalty all our lives."
A moment's silence followed the light words. Betty apparently had nothing to say.
And then: "And some of us don't even know the meaning of the word!" said Montague Herne.
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Publication Date: 02-09-2010

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