XIV
BROWN'S TRIAL BY FIRE
He had gone alone into a den of Atchison's, where was kept a medley ofbooks and pipes and weapons, a bachelor collection of trophies of allsorts. He was in search of a certain loving-cup which had been mentionedand asked for, and Atchison himself had for the moment left the apartmentto see an insistent caller below. The den was at some distance from theplace where the company was assembled, and Brown could hear their voicesonly in the remote distance as he searched. Suddenly a light sound asof the movement of silken draperies fell upon his ear, and at the sameinstant a low voice spoke. He swung about, to see a figure before him atsight of which, alone as he had been with it for months, he felt hisunsubdued heart leap in his breast. By her face he knew she had followedhim for a purpose. He let her speak.
"Donald Brown," she said--and she spoke fast and breathlessly, as if shefeared, as he did, instant interruption and this were her onlychance--"what you have said to-night makes me forget everything but whatI want you to know."
Quite evidently her heart was beating synchronously with his, for hecould see how it shook her. He stared at her, at the lovely line andcolour of cheek and chin, at the wonderful shadowed eyes, at the softdarkness of her heavy hair. She was wearing misty white to-night, withone great red rose upon her breast; she was such a sight as might wellblind a man, even if he were not already blind with love of her. Thefragrance of the rose was in his nostrils--it assailed his senses as ifit were a part of her, its fragrance hers. But he did not speak.
"You asked me something once," she went on, with an evident effort."Would you mind telling me if--if--"
But he would not help her. He could not believe he understood what shemeant to say.
"You make it very hard for me," she murmured. "Yet I believe I understandwhy, if this thing is ever said at all, I must be the one to say it. Doyou--Donald--do you--still--care?"
"_O God_!" he cried in his heart. "_O God! Couldn't You have sparedme this_?"
But aloud, after an instant, he said, a little thickly, "I think you knowwithout asking. I shall never stop caring."
She lifted her eyes. "Then--" and she waited.
He must speak. She had done her part. His head swam with the suddenastounding revelation that she was his for the taking, if--Ah, but the_if_! He knew too well what that must mean.
"Are you tempting me, too?" he asked, with sudden fierceness. "Do youmean--like all the rest--I may have you if--I give up my purpose andstay here?"
Mutely her eyes searched his. Dumb with the agony of it his searched hersin return. He turned away.
"Don!" Her voice was all low music. The words vibrated appealingly; shehad seen what it meant to him. She put out one hand as if to touchhim--and drew it back. "Listen to me, please. I know--I know--what awonderful sacrifice you are making. I admire and honour you for it--I do.But--think once more. This great parish--surely there is work for youhere, wonderful work. Won't you do it--_with me_?"
He looked at her with sudden decision on his course.
"You left that photograph?" He spoke huskily.
She nodded.
"You left it there, in my poor house. I've cherished it there. It hasn'tsuffered. You wouldn't suffer. Will you live--and work--withme--_there_?"
"Oh!" She drew back. "How can you--Do you realize what you ask?"
"I don't ask it expecting to receive it. I know it's impossible--fromyour viewpoint. But--it's--all I have to ask--"
He broke off, fighting savagely with the desire to seize her in his armsthat was all but overmastering him.
She moved away a step in her turn, standing, with down-bent head, thepartial line of her profile, the curve of her neck and beautifulshoulder, presenting an even greater appeal to the devouring flame of hislonging than her eyes had done. It seemed to him that he would give theheart out of his body even to press his lips upon that fair flesh justbelow the low-drooping masses of her hair, flesh exquisite as a child'sin contrast with the dark locks above it. All the long months of hisexile pressed upon him with mighty force to urge him to assuage hisloneliness with this divine balm.
Suddenly she spoke, just above a whisper. "I wonder," she said, "if anywoman ever humiliated herself--like this--to be so refused."
He answered that with swift, eager words: "It is the most womanly, themost wonderful thing, any woman could do for a man. I shall never forgetit, or cease to honour you for it. I love you--_love you_--for it--tenthousand times more than I loved you before, if that can be. I _must_ sayit. I must put it into words that you and I can both remember, or I thinkmy heart will burst. But--Helena--I have vowed this vow to my God. I haveput my hand to this plow. I can't turn back--not even for you. No man,having done that, '_and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God_.' Heisn't fit for the kingdoms of earth, either. He isn't fit for--hell!"
Very slowly she moved away from him, her head still drooping. At thedoor she did not pause and look back, actress-like, to try him with onemore look. She went like a wounded thing. And at the sight, the wildimpulse to rush after her and cry to her that nothing in the wideuniverse mattered, so that she should lift that head and lay it on hisbreast, gripped him and wrung him, till drops of moisture started outupon his forehead, and he turned sick. Then she was out of sight, and hestood grasping the back of a chair, fighting for control. This was adinner-party--a dinner-party! Kind God in heaven! And he and she must goback to those other people and smile and talk, must somehow cover it allup. How was it conceivably to be done?
She could do it, perhaps. After all, it could not be the soul-stirringthing to her that it was to him. She loved him enough to be hiswife--under the old conditions. She did not love him enough to go withhim as his wife into the new conditions. Then she could not be sufferingas he was suffering. Wounded pride--she was feeling that, no doubt ofit--wounded pride is not a pleasant thing to feel. She loved himsomewhat, loved him enough to take the initiative in this scene to-night.But real love--she could not know what that was, or she would follow himto the ends of the earth. It was the woman's part to follow, not theman's. Hers to give up her preference for his duty. Since she could notdo this, she did not really love him. This was the bitterest drop in thewhole bitter cup!
Footsteps came rapidly along the corridor, Webb Atchison appeared in thedoorway. At the first sound of his return Brown had wheeled and was foundstanding before a cabinet, in which behind glass doors was kept a choicecollection of curios from all parts of the world. He was trying to summonwords to explain that he was looking for a certain loving-cup--_aloving-cup_--when one had just been presented, full to overflowing, tohis thirsty lips, and he had refused to drink!
But Atchison was full of his message.
"Don, I've done my best to put the fellow off, but he will see you. Hangit!--to-night of all nights! I don't know why that following of yoursshould pursue you to this place. I suspect it will be considerable of ajolt to that chap to see you in an expanse of white shirt-front. But itseems somebody has been taken worse since you left, and insists on seeingyou. Why in thunder did you leave an address for them to find you at?"
By the time Atchison had delivered himself of all this Brown had hold ofhimself, could turn and speak naturally. The news had been like a dash ofcold water in the face of a fainting man.
"Who is worse--Mr. Benson?"
"Think that was the name--an old man. The messenger's waiting, though Itold him you certainly couldn't go back to-night."
"I certainly shall go back to-night. Where is he?"
Expostulating uselessly, Atchison led the way. Brown found AndrewMurdison standing with a look of dogged determination on his face, whichchanged to one of relief when he saw Brown. Old Benson, the watchmaker,who had been convalescing from illness when Brown came away, had suffereda relapse and had probably but few hours to live.
With a brief leave-taking, in the course of which Brown held for aninstant the hand of Helena Forrest and found it cold as ice in his grasp,he went away. As the train bore him swif
tly back to the place he had leftso recently, certain words came to him and stayed by him, fittingthemselves curiously to the rhythmic roar of the train:
"_God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that yeare able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that yemay be able to bear it_."
And the car wheels, as they turned, seemed to be saying, mile after mile:"_A way to escape--a way to escape--a way to escape_!"