Part 24 (1/2)
”Why should I think to find you different?” she asked, ”Is any man different from his fellows, humble or great? Is it not man himself, not only men, that I must face as I have faced you--with silence, or with sullen speech, or with a hardness far beyond my years, and a gaiety that means nothing more kind than insolence?”
Again her head fell on her breast, and her hands linked themselves on her knees as she knelt there in silence.
”Lois,” I said, trying to think clearly, ”I do not know that other men and I are different. Once I believed so. But--lately--I do not know.
Yet, I know this: selfish or otherwise, I can not endure the thought of you in peril.”
She looked at me very gravely; then dropped her head once more.
”I don't know,” I said desperately, ”I wish to be honest--tell you no lie--tell none to myself. I--your beauty--has touched me--or whatever it is about you that attracts. And, whatever gown you go in, I scarcely see it--somehow--finding you so--so strangely--lovely--in speech also--and in--every way.... And now that I have not lied to you--or to myself--in spite of what I have said, let me be useful to you. For I can be; and perhaps these other sentiments will pa.s.s away----”
She looked up so suddenly that I ceased speaking, fearful of a rebuff; but saw only the grave, grey eyes looking straight into mine, and a sudden, deeper colour waning from her cheeks.
”Whatever I am,” said I, ”I can be what I will. Else I were no man. If your--beauty--has moved me, that need not concern you--and surely not alarm you. A woman's beauty is her own affair. Men take their chance with it--as I take mine with yours--that it do me no deep damage. And if it do, or do not, our friends.h.i.+p is still another matter; for it means that I wish you well, desire to aid you, ease your burdens, make you secure and safe, vary your solitude with a friendly word--I mean, Lois, to be to you a real comrade, if you will. Will you?”
After a moment she said:
”What was it that you said about my--beauty?”
”I take my chances that it do me no deep damage.”
”Oh! Am I to take my chance, too?”
”What chance?”
”That--your kindness do me--no damage?”
”What senseless talk is this you utter?”
She shook her head slowly, then:
”What a strange boy! I do not fear you.”
”Fear me?” I repeated, flus.h.i.+ng hotly. ”What is there to fear? I am neither yokel nor beast.”
”They say a gentleman should be more dreaded.”
I stared at her, then laughed:
”Ask yourself how far you need have dread of me--when, if you desire it, you can leave me dumb, dismayed, lip-bound by your mocking tongue--which G.o.d knows well I fear.”
”Is my tongue so bitter then? I did not know it.”
”I know it,” said I with angry emphasis. ”And I tell you very freely that----”
She stole a curious glance at me. Something halted me--an expression I had never yet seen there in her face, twitching at her lips--hovering on them now--parting them in a smile so sweet and winning that, silenced by the gracious transformation, unexpected, I caught my breath, astonished.
”What is your given name?” she asked, still dimpling at me, and her eyes now but two blue wells of light.
”Euan,” I said, foolish as a flattered schoolboy, and as awkward.