Man and Maid

“I loathe play-acting,” Constance had said, but she had submitted, and now she sat sketching, and Rosamund in her white gown watched the seagulls and shrimpers from under the sea-wall of Lymchurch.

“And so your holiday’s over in three days,” she was saying to the young man beside her; “it’s been a good time, hasn’t it?”

He did not answer; he was piling up the pebbles in a heap, and always at a certain point the heap collapsed.

“What are you thinking of? Poems again?”

“I had a verse running in my head,” he said apologetically; “it has nothing to do with anything.”

“Write it down at once,” she said imperiously, and he obediently scribbled in his notebook, while she took up the work of building the stone heap – it grew higher under her light fingers.

“Read it!” she said, when the scribbling of the pencil stopped, and he read:

“Now the vexed clouds, wind-driven, spread wings of white,
Long leaning wings across the sea and land;
The waves creep back, bequeathing to our sight
The treasure-house of their deserted sand;
And where the nearer waves curl white and low,
Knee-deep in swirling brine the slow-foot shrimpers go.

Pale breadth of sand where clamorous gulls confer
Marked with broad arrows by their planted feet,
White rippled pools where late deep waters were,
And ever the white waves marshalled in retreat,
And the grey wind in sole supremacy
O’er opal and amber cold of darkening sky and sea.”

“Opal and amber cold,” she repeated; “it’s not like that now. It’s sapphire and gold and diamonds.”

“Yes,” he said; “but that was how it was last week – ”

“Before I came – ”

“Yes, before you came;” his tone put a new meaning into her words.

“I’m glad I brought good weather,” she said cheerfully, and the little stone heap rattled itself down under her hand.

“You brought the light of the world,” he said, and caught her hand and held it. There was a silence. A fisherman passing along the sea-wall gave them good-day. “What made you come to Lymchurch?” he said presently, and his hand lay lightly on hers. She hesitated, and looked down at her hand and his.

“I knew you were here,” she said. His eyes met hers. “I always meant to see you again some day. And you knew me at once. That was so nice of you.”

“You have not changed,” he said; “your face has not changed, only you are older, and – ”

“I’m twenty-two; you needn’t reproach me with it. Yours is the same to a month.”

He moved on his elbow a little nearer to her.

“Has it ever occurred to you,” he asked, looking out to sea, “that you and I were made for each other?”

“No; never.”

He looked out to sea still, and his face clouded heavily.

“Ah – no – don’t look like that, dear; it never occurred to me – I think I must have always known it somehow, only – ”

“Only what? – do you really? – only what?” A silence. Then, “Only what?” he asked again.

“Only I was so afraid it would never occur to you!”

There was no one on the wide, bare sands save the discreet artist – their faces were very near.

“We shall be very, very poor, I’m afraid,” he said presently.

“I can go on teaching.”

“No” – his voice was decided – “my wife shan’t work – at least not anywhere but in our home. You won’t mind playing at love in a cottage for a bit, will you? I shall get on now I’ve something to work for. Oh, my dear, thank God I’ve enough for the cottage! When will you marry me? We’ve nothing to wait for, no relations to consult, no settlements to draw up. All that’s mine is thine, lassie.”

“And all that’s mine – Oh! Stephen!”

For, with a scattering of shingle, a man dropped from the sea-wall two yards from them.

The situation admitted of no disguise, for Miss Rainham’s head was on Mr Dornington’s shoulder. They sprang up.

“Why, Stephen!” echoed Andrew, “this – this is good of you! You remember Rosamund? We have just found out that – ” But Rosamund had turned, and was walking quickly away over the sand.

Stephen filled a pipe and lighted it before he said: “You’ve made good use of your time, old man. I congratulate you.” His tone was cold.

“There is no reason why I should not make good use of my time,” Dornington answered, and his tone had caught the chill of the other’s.

“None whatever. You have secured the prize, and I congratulate you. Whether it’s fair to the girl is another question.”

In moments of agitation a man instinctively feels for his pipe. It was now Dornington’s turn to fill and light.

“Of course it’s your own affair,” said Guillemot, chafing at the silence, “but I think you might have given the heiress a chance. However, it’s each for himself, I suppose, and – ”

“Heiress?”

“Yes, the heiress – the Millionairess, if you prefer it. I’ve been looking into her affairs: it is just about a million.”

“Rather cheap chaff, isn’t it?”

“It’s a very lucky thing for you,” said Stephen savagely. “Perhaps I ought not to grudge it to you. But I must say, Dornington – I see we look at the thing differently – but I must say, I shouldn’t have cared to grab at such luck myself.”

Dornington had thrust his hands into his pockets, and stood looking at his friend.

“I see,” he said slowly. “And her fortune is really so much? I didn’t think it had been so much as that. Yes. Well, Guillemot, it’s no good making a row about it; I don’t want to quarrel with my best friend. Go along to my place, will you? Or stay: come and let me introduce you to Miss Grant, and you can walk up with her; she’ll show you where I live. I’m going for a bit of a walk.”

Five minutes later Stephen, in response to Rosamund’s beckoning hand at the window, was following Miss Grant up the narrow flagged path leading to the cottage which Rosamund had taken. And ten minutes later Andrew Dornington was striding along the road to the station with a Gladstone bag in his hands.