At Large. E. W. Hornung
lightly of this and that for a full quarter of an hour, while Dick basked recklessly in her smiles, and almost persuaded himself that this was happiness. But at last came a pause; and then he nerved himself to speak.
"Alice," he began gravely, "you know our few words last night? You said I might speak to you today."
"Well," said Alice, carelessly.
"You know very well what I want to speak about," rather warmly.
Alice turned down her leaf, shut up her magazine, leant back, and surveyed him calmly.
"I wish I didn't, Dick," she answered, half in annoyance, half in pity. But her look added: "Say on; let us have it out—and over."
"Last night," said Dick smoothly, "I asked you if you remembered old days, and what there was between us, and so on. You said you didn't want to remember them, and talked about your 'childhood.' You said you were altered, and that, of course, I must be altered." He paused.
So far he had been cool and fluent; but he had rehearsed all this. His next words came hot from the heart, and fell unsteadily from the lips.
"Oh, Alice," cried he, "did you mean that? Say that you didn't! I have never changed, never can. Oh, say that you are the same. Say that you only meant to tease me, or try me, or anything you like—anything but that you meant all that about our being altered, and forgetting the past—" his voice was piteous in its appeal; "say that you didn't mean it!" he repeated in a whisper.
"I did mean it," Alice replied; not harshly or coldly, but with due deliberation.
Dick turned pale. He grasped the gunwale nervously with each hand, and leaned forward.
"Then I—no longer—have your love?" he asked in a hollow voice.
Alice looked at him reproachfully; there was even indignation in her glance.
"How can you force such things from me? Have you no pride?" He winced. "But, since you press for an explanation, you shall have one. Before you went away I knew no one. I was a child; I had always been fond of you; my head was full of nonsense; and, when you asked me, I said I loved you. It was true, too, in a childish way."
"Go on," said Dick, in a low voice.
Alice was flushed, and her eyes sparkled, but her self-possession was complete.
"Well, you come back after four years, and, it seems, expect to find me still a child. Instead of that, I am a woman—a sensible woman," with a good humoured twinkle of the eyes, "disinclined to go on with the old nonsense just where it left off—you must admit that that would be absurd? But for the rest, I am as fond of you, Dick, as I was then—only without the childish nonsense. No one is more delighted to see you back, and welcome you, than I am; no one is more your friend. Dear Dick," she added in a tone of earnest entreaty, "cannot we be friends still?"
"No!" exclaimed Dick, hoarsely.
The flush died away from the girl's face, to return two-fold.
"No!" he repeated. "You give me your love, and then, after years of separation, you offer me your friendship instead. What is that to me? How can I make that do—a lamp instead of the sun? It is too much to ask of any man: you know it. Who has taught you to play with men's hearts like this?"
"I have been too kind," said Alice, coldly. She had stifled her humiliation, and was preparing to leave the boat.
"Say rather too cruel!" returned Dick very bitterly. "Nay, not on my account. I will save you the trouble of going."
He sprang from the boat as he spoke. One moment he stood on the bank with a blight on his brave eyes; the next, he raised his hat proudly, turned on his heel and was gone.
No sooner had he disappeared than the young lady produced a little lace handkerchief, and rained her tears upon its wholly inadequate area. She sobbed for nearly five minutes; and, after that, dipped her pink fingers in the water, and made assiduous efforts to expunge the most tell-tale symptoms. Then she took up the magazine and tried to revive her interest in the story she had been reading, but she could remember nothing about it. Finally she was about to quit the boat in despair, when, looking up, whom should she see but Dick Edmonstone towering above her on the bank, hat in hand.
"I want you to forgive me," he said very humbly. She affected not to understand him, and intimated as much by raising her eyebrows.
"For what I said just now" (rapidly)—"for everything I have said since I saw you first, last night. And I want to say—if you will still have it—let us be—friends."
Her face instantly brightened; every trace of affectation vanished; she smiled gratefully upon him.
"Ah, that is sense!" said she.
"But," said Dick, still more earnestly, "there are two questions I do think I may ask, though whether you will answer them—"
"I will," the girl exclaimed rashly.
"Well, then, the first is, have you taken a dislike to me—a new one? Don't laugh," he said, colouring; "I mean it. It is so possible, you know. I have led a rough life; you might easily be ashamed of the things I had to do, to make my way at first; you might easily think me less polished, less gentlemanly: if it is that, I implore you to say so."
She could scarcely keep grave; even he might have smiled, but for the question he had still to ask.
"No, it is not that; to my mind you are just the same."
Dick drew a deep breath of relief.
"The second question may offend you; if it does—well, it can't be helped. I think my old footing—even though you were a child then—is sufficient excuse for it. It is, then—and, indeed, you must grant me an honest answer—do you love another man?"
"And it is not that," said Alice shortly, nevertheless looking him full in the face.
A great load was removed from his heart.
"Then it is only," he said eagerly—"only that you wish to cancel the past? really only that?"
"Really only that," she repeated with a smile.
"Then," added Dick, hope rekindling in his heart, "may I never—that is, won't you hold out to me the least faint spark?"
"I think you had better leave well alone," said Alice; and she stepped lightly from the boat as she spoke. "Now I must go in. Will you come, too?"
"No; I must say good-bye."
"Really? Then good-bye, Dick." Another sweet smile as she stretched out her hand. "And come as often as ever you can; you will always be welcome."
He watched her slim form tripping daintily across the grass.
"Ay, I will come!" he muttered between his teeth; "and I shall win you yet, Miss Caprice, though I have to begin all over again. To start afresh! How could I have borne the thought yesterday? Yet to-day it must be faced. This minute I give up looking back, and begin to look forward. And it may be better so; for when I win you, as win you I shall, you will be all the dearer to me. I might not have valued you as I ought—who knows? You do not deny me hope; I shan't deny it to myself. You shall be mine, never fear. For the present, have your wish—we are only friends."
His resolution taken, Dick Edmonstone threw up vain regrets; "friendly relations" with Alice were duly established, and at first the plan worked tolerably well. They had one or two common interests, fortunately. Alice dabbled in water-colours; in which Dick could help her, and did. In return, Alice took a lively interest in his sketches; and they would sometimes talk of the career to which he was to devote himself. Then there was the river; they were both good oars, and, with Alice, rowing was a passion.
Beyond these things there was little enough to bring them together. In everything else Mr. Miles either stepped in or enjoyed a previous pre-eminence. At first Dick tried hard to hate this man for his own sake, without being jealous of him; but under the circumstances it was impossible for jealousy