CHAPTER XII.
ON THE HILL AT SAMAC.
As I stepped forward two persons who had been sitting apart from her rose and came quickly toward me. In my abstraction I had not noticed them; but I saw now that one was a priest and the other a matronly woman of between thirty and forty years of age.
“What do you want? Who are you? This lady is in my care,” said the priest.
“You saw that the dog knew me for a friend,” I answered.
“That may be, but what do you want?” he asked again.
I looked across to Mademoiselle. She hesitated a moment and then spoke to the priest.
“It is all right, father. I wish to speak to—him.” There was just a suspicion of a pause at the last word as though she had been in doubt how to speak of me.
“But Father Michel—” began the priest in protest, when she interposed and with a single gesture silenced him.
The incident gave her time to regain self-possession. Outwardly she grew calm, dignified, and almost cold, but her eyes were burning and in them I read the reproach I had so dreaded during my ride.
“Why have you come?” she asked, when I could not speak; and her voice was hard to my ears and accusing. I hung my head.
“I have no answer,” I murmured. “I am sorry; but I can go again.” I had hoped, like the fool I was, she would have been glad to see me; and chilled and beaten by this reception, I turned on my heel to leave.
Then Chris made a difficulty. He ran after me so that at the door I had to turn to send him back.
“Call him,” I said. If she could be hard, so could I; and my face was as cold and stern as she could have wished her own to be.
But at my look she winced and bent her head. Her interlocked fingers were strained tightly. It was as though she understood the pain she caused me and her own tender heart was wrung at the sight. Chris stood looking up wistfully into my face.
“Go back, Chris. Good-bye, old dog.” He whimpered in protest; for all the world as though he knew we were to part. “Go, Chris, good dog,” I said again; and then he went slowly to her and licked the hands which were straining in such emotion.
She did not look at me and I turned again and went out.
“Burgwan!”
It was barely more than a whisper, but I heard it clearly as I stepped out of the door. I did not heed it, however. I had done wrong in coming there at all, and I was sufficiently master of myself now to hold to my resolve to leave her. I walked toward the spot where I had left Karasch with the horses; but I had not taken a dozen steps before a great scurry of feet came after me, and Chris was yelping with glee and thrusting his nose into my hand and fondling me.
“You shouldn’t have come, Chris. You’re only making it all the harder, old dog. You must go back. You belong to her now;” and turning to send him back, I saw her coming toward us.
“I called to you, Burgwan.”
“I thought it best not to hear you, Mademoiselle.”
“I could not let you go like that,” she murmured; and then a pause fell between us and we stood for a minute or more, neither knowing what to say.
“Karasch is here, too?” she said at length, seeing him with the horses.
“Yes. He was anxious to know you were really safe.”
“And you?” There was a quick gleam of hope in her eyes that I too had acted with the same motive.
“That was not my reason. I knew you were safe. I have seen Father Michel. I came because I am a coward. But I am going.”
“No.” Sharp, clear, decisive and almost peremptory her tone was. And again we were silent in mutual embarrassment. To relieve it somewhat I began to move, and we walked away from the little station along a path leading up a small grass-covered hill and reached the top of it before we spoke again.
“When does your train leave?”
“At eight.”
“There is an hour yet,” I said, glancing at my watch.
“Yes, there is just an hour,” she repeated, monotonously, as if glad of something commonplace to say. And again we came to a stop.
“When do you reach Belgrade?” It was a fatuous question; but as I could not speak of what filled my heart, I had to speak at haphazard.
“I don’t know. We travel all night, I suppose;” and there was an end of that subject.
“Shall we sit down? The view is lovely,” I said next.
“Oh, don’t, for God’s sake, don’t.” It was a cry right from her heart. “Can’t you see what you are making me suffer, and you talk to me of trains and views?”
“We must talk of something,” I replied, a little doggedly.
“Why do you come here?” she asked, turning upon me fiercely. “If you had been the man I deemed you, you would have done as I asked—after what I told Father Michel to tell you.”
“I did not give him time to tell me anything. When Petrov brought me your second letter bidding me wait for you, he told me that you had already left for this place. I came after you at once.”
“But you said you had seen the priest. Did he not come to you? He promised.”
“I didn’t wait for him when I learnt you had left. I rode to him to his house. He said I should cause you pain if I followed you and appealed to my chivalry and said he had messages for me from you, and urged me to stay and listen. But I had pain of my own and with an angry laugh I rode away after you.”
“That was your view of chivalry?”
“Yes; that was my view of chivalry. I told you I came because I was a coward. I am. I see it now. And you may as well know me for what I am.” I spoke bitterly, stung by her scornful words, and found a curious pleasure in avowing my unworthiness. “I have forced myself upon you, you see; forced myself like a brute and a——”
“Oh, don’t,” she interposed, putting up a hand in protest, and turning away, walked to a fallen tree and sat down upon it. I followed and threw myself on the ground near and waited for her to speak. She sat thinking awhile and then said slowly:
“Things must be made plain between us, Burgwan. I planned to leave you in Poabja.”
“Father Michel told me as much.”
“It was for the best, so. I knew that when once I was in Poabja he would be able to help me.”
“And my help would be no longer needed.”
“I am glad you are angry. It helps me,” she answered, quietly; and so silenced me. “You remember I told you I had nothing to fear there; and I would have told you why, but that I was afraid I could not see him first and so warn him what not to tell you about me. That was why I rode on into the town, meaning to find him out by myself. He is from Belgrade, and, of course, knows me. I meant him to help me slip away while detaining you on some pretext.”
“Others did that for him,” I put in drily.
“You were not hurt, were you?”
“No, but you might have been.”
“I was not. By a happy chance Father Michel met me while I was in the hands of the people and had asked them to take me to him. He rescued me at once and took me to his house. I told him then about you and he gave orders for your release. Then word was brought that you had threatened to take Petrov’s life, and I wrote you that letter asking you to remain where you were for two hours. This would have given me time to get right away; and I was writing you another letter, when Petrov came back with yours. We detained him while I left, and I arranged with Father Michel to tell you all you wished to know about me.”
“You arranged it all very cleverly, Mademoiselle,” I said angrily, as I rose. “I am sorry I upset your plans. I owe you an apology. I offer it now.” I bowed with affected ceremoniousness and added like a brutal cad, in my anger: “I was a fool, of course, to have looked for further consideration.”
Her answer was a look, no more; but as I met her eyes my face flushed with the shame she made me feel for my brutality. I felt I could have torn my tongue out could the words have been unspoken. I turned and covered my flaming cheeks with my hands and walked away down the hill.
“Burgwan! Burgwan!” she called, and when I did not stop came after me and laid her hand on my shoulder. I shook it off impatiently, like a petulant child, and she placed herself in my path.
“Burgwan! Is it possible that that is how it seemed to you? My God!”
I took my hands from my face and saw that hers was white and strained.
“Let me go,” I cried.
“Not like that. Not with that thought,” she said, her lips trembling.
“Let me go. I am not fit to look at you.”
“Not with that thought of me,” she repeated.
“Let me go,” I cried, for the third time passionately. “Or I will not answer for myself.”
“Not with that thought of me,” she repeated again. “I cannot. Do you really think so of me?”
“My God, how could I? I love you with my whole heart.” The avowal burst from me by an uncontrollable impulse, and I stood shaken by the vehemence of my own passion and looked for her to shrink from me.
But instead she smiled softly and with maddening sweetness as she murmured my name.
“Ah, Burgwan; now you know.”
I seized her hands to draw her to me. But this she resisted, though she left them in mine, and as I looked into her eyes I saw the tears there.
“I have been punished, Burgwan,” she said as she smiled through her tears.
“You love me, then?”
She met my look without faltering, smiling on through her tears, and made a brave effort to choke back her emotion, until her head drooped slowly.
“You must not ask me that, Burgwan. You must know all the truth now. Poor Burgwan. Oh, I think my heart is breaking.” The last was little more than a sigh, and taking her hands from mine she went back up the hill to the tree and sat down again.
Seeing her sorrow, Chris went to her and whined and put his head in her lap; the beast loved her well nigh as much as I did, and her trouble grieved him as it grieved me, I think. She threw her arms round his neck and laid her head to his in response to his dumb offer of sympathy.
In this way some minutes passed, and I knew without words from her all the reason of her wish to leave me. That wild thought of mine had been right. It was from her own heart she had been flying; and she was suffering now the pain I could have spared her but for my insensate selfishness.
I knew that there were obstacles which she believed to be insuperable between us, and I had driven her to this admission of her love as the preface to telling me the reasons why it was impossible.
But in the same moment I vowed they should not come between us. Nothing should do that except her own will; and if these difficulties could be overcome by any means within my reach, my life should be devoted to beating them down.
There was something or someone to fight now; and she was a prize worth fighting for, with all the man that was in me; and while the sight of her pain moved and distressed me beyond words, I could no longer feel sorry I had come after her to Samac.
She loved me; and the knowledge of love may have a setting of pain and sorrow and yet be well gained and rightly gained. Our hearts had answered one to the other; and despite the pain, it was well that each should know the truth.
I put away all the signs of passion and fastened them down with the clamps of resolution. I would win her yet, let the case be desperate as it would. I could wait for such a victory; and while waiting, fight to hold the love I had already won.
Presently, when she had become less agitated, she called me.
I let her see at once that I had chosen my course.
“I don’t mind what you are going to tell me, it will make no difference,” I said as I sat by her side.
She smiled but shook her head. “You do not know yet,” she answered. “It is hopeless and impossible.”
“You do not know me, or you would not use that word.”
“I remember what you said about that on the hill this morning; but this—I am so sorry, Burgwan.” She paused and then said very steadily: “I am the promised wife of another man.”
The words hit me hard, each with a sting of its own. I had looked for anything but this; and I needed all my resolution not to wince and shew the pain they inflicted, but to meet her steady gaze with one equally steady. I succeeded and forced a smile as I answered.
“I had not expected that,” I said, quietly. “But in fact I don’t think I know what I did expect. In any case there is a great difference between a wife and a promised wife, Mademoiselle.”
“I shall be his wife within the present month.”
“That gives us a fortnight or three weeks. The month is only a week old.”
“If you tell me that you love another man, I shall——”
“Don’t,” she interposed with a gesture.
“It is not the coward who says this, and now it is you who do not understand me. I am not making love to you. I will never do that unless I can do it honourably; and that cannot be while you are promised to another man. But until you tell me that your heart is given to another, I shall not cease to hope and will not cease striving to win you.”
She listened to me and caught at my words. She lifted her head and with an air of half-defiant pride she made a great effort to look me straight in the eyes and take up my challenge.
“I do love—” But she could get no farther; her head fell, and she cried, “You would shame me, Burgwan.” I cried with intense earnestness:
“God forbid that I should do that, Mademoiselle. I wish I could make it all easier for you. But this is life to us both and nothing will serve but truth and candour.”
She did not answer this for some moments, but sat thinking intently, her face averted from me; and presently I said: “People have been in this plight before, and have come out of it.”
She took no notice at first and then turned with a sad, sweet smile.
“You must not make this too hard for me. I owe you so much——”
“Say nothing of that, please, or you will silence me altogether, Mademoiselle,” I interposed, quickly.
“Do you forget what I told you—there would be no Mademoiselle in Belgrade. I am the Princess Gatrina, betrothed to Prince Albrevics, next in succession to the Servian throne.”
I tried to take it with a smile as I had before taken the news of her betrothal; but I could not. I could not even find a word to reply. I just sat staring out in front of me yet seeing nothing. I was like a man stricken dumb by a sudden calamity—helpless, numbed and beaten.
I must have turned deathly white, for all the blood in my body seemed to have rushed to my heart which beat with great lurching thumps against my ribs and shook my whole body. Then my head where I had been struck began to throb in response to the wild hammer of the pulse, and I grew dizzy and faint. My breath came with difficulty and I had to grip the tree with strenuous hands lest I should fall from it.
“It was this I asked Father Michel to tell you,” she said presently.
I heard her, of course; but her voice sounded far away and apart from me. Much as though the barrier between us had become substantial and she were speaking from far on the other side of it.
At length I managed to get to my feet and to pace up and down, winning the fight against my reeling senses and gathering up the fragments of my scattered resolution. The first sign of my victory was a feeling of blind, bitter anger with myself for having shewn such weakness before her.
“You must not judge me by this exhibition,” I said, as a sort of apology. “My head pained me for a moment. That’s all; I’m better now again.”
But her pitying eyes shewed that she understood.
“I am so sorry.” Just conventional words they were; but the look and the tone told me how straight from her gentle heart they came and how intensely she was feeling. “You are ill. Sit down again.” She did not use any name now, and I noticed the omission. I was no longer Burgwan; and already the restraint of our altered relations was making itself felt. But she moved as if to make place for me on the fallen tree.
“I am not ill now, thank you; and I think it is time for you to go.” I glanced at my watch. “Yes, it is quite time.”
She sat on a moment, her eyes closed, and then sighed deeply and rose. Chris got up with her and she bent down and fondled him.
“Good-bye, Chris, dear, faithful friend, good-bye,” she murmured, and kissed his head.
“You will not take him?” I asked.
“Not now. No. I—I cannot. I should think of—of this.” Then with a smile: “He will be so much happier with you.” She stooped and kissed him again.
“It is better so, perhaps.” I said. “But just as you will.”
She was very quiet and calm now, and turning from the dog, she held out her hand to me, with a brave smile.
“Good-bye. You have not told me how to address you.”
I took the white trembling fingers, and held them a moment with a slight pressure, which was returned.
“It is only Burgwan who bids you good-bye,” I said.
“It is better so. It is only Burgwan whom I can remember.”
She paused a moment, her eyes wistfully on mine, and then impulsively held out her hand again.
This time I was carrying it to my lips when I remembered, checked myself, and let it fall. She was trembling violently, and her breathing was deep and laboured. As I loosed her hand I heard her catch her breath; and looking up I saw she was very white, the lips were almost bloodless as she bit them in the battle with her agitation.
We stood thus looking into one another’s eyes for some seconds.
Poor little woman, she was finding it very hard; and a fierce yearning came upon me to clasp her to my heart and urge her to let love have its way and trust herself to the care of my love.
But it was her moment of weakness, and one of us two must be strong. I believe she knew by love’s instinct the thought that thus rushed upon me, for her hands were half raised and a great flush of colour spread over her pale cheeks.
I stepped back and dropped my eyes to the ground. There was a half-smothered sob, the brush of her skirts, the light touch of her foot-fall on the path; and when I lifted my head she had gone, hurrying down the hillside, and Chris was looking after her and then back at me whining in doubt.
I watched her go, hoping she would turn her head; but she held on steadily and was nearing the bottom when Chris gave a short bark and scampered after her at a mad gallop, reaching her just before a bend in the path would have hidden her.
I hoped she would take him with her; but she did not. She stopped and petted him, letting him fawn upon her in his loving way, and stooped and kissed him, and then I saw her point up the hill toward me.
He hesitated to obey her, came a few steps, stopped and ran back to her. She petted him again, and again ordered him back. He looked up in her face as if in dire doubt; and then came slowly toward me, but only to stop and turn again. She repeated the gesture; and this time he drooped his tail and came on.
She watched him; and presently looked higher up to me. I waved my hand, but she gave no answering signal; and before the dog reached me, she had passed round the bend in the path and was gone.
I sat down on the fallen tree where we had been together and leant my face in my hands, overcome by a deadening sense of utter desolation and dreary loss. This at first shut out all other thoughts.
But not for long. If the barrier between us was so infinitely greater than my worst fears had conceived that on first learning it I had been whelmed and staggered by the blow, I had gained another knowledge. She loved me; and with that priceless vantage on my side I should be a coward indeed to be daunted by any obstacles.
She loved me; and when I rose, my resolution was set. I would fight on to the end to win her, let who else and what else stand in my path.