VIII
"What time is it?" she asked.
He looked at his watch. "Half-past two."
"We have missed that train now."
"I don't know. And anyway there's probably another."
"And David?"
"He's lost his way in the fog. He'll turn up at any moment." He stood up and shouted once again:
"Dunbar! Dunbar! Dunbar!"
No answer.
He stood over her looking down at her as she sat with drooping head. She looked up at him. "I'm ashamed at the way I've behaved," she said, "fainting and crying. But you needn't be afraid any more. I shan't give in again."
Indeed, he seemed to see in her altogether a new spirit, something finer and more secure. She put out her hand to him.
"Come and sit down on the stone again as we were before. It's better for us to talk and then we don't frighten ourselves with possibilities. After all, we can't do anything, can we, so long as this horrid fog lasts? We must just sit here and wait for David."
He sat down, put his arm around her as he had done before. The moment had come. He had only now to speak and the result was certain—the whole of his future life and hers. He knew so exactly what he would say. The words were forming on his lips.
"Hesther dear, I've known you so short a time, but nevertheless I love you with all my heart and being. When you are rid of this horrible man will you marry me? I will spend all my life in making you happy——"
And she, oh, without an instant's doubt, would say "Yes," would hide in his arms, and rest there as though secure, yes, utterly secure for life. But the battle was over. He would not begin it again. He clipped the words back and sat silent, one hand clenched on his knee.
It was as though she were waiting for him to speak. Their silence was packed with anticipation. At last she said:
"What is the matter? Is there something you're afraid of that you don't like to tell me? You needn't mind. I'm through my fear."
"No, there's nothing," he answered. At last he said: "There is one thing I'd like to say to you. I suppose I've no right to speak of it seeing how recently I've known you, but I guess this night has made us friends as months of ordinary living never would have made us."
"Yes, you're right in that," she answered. He knew what she was expecting him to say.
"Well, it's about Dunbar." He could feel her hand jump in his. "He loves you so much—so terribly. He isn't a man, I should think, to say very much about his feelings. I've only known him for an hour or two, and he wouldn't have said anything to me if he hadn't had to. But from the little he did say I could see what he feels. You're in luck to have a man like that in love with you."
She took her hand out of his, then, very quietly but very stiffly, answered:
"But I've known him all my life, you know."
"That's just why I'm speaking about him," Harkness answered.
"It's rather strange to have the friend of your life explained to you by some one who has known him only for an hour or two." She laughed a little angrily.
"But that's just why I'm speaking," he answered. "When you've known some one all your life you can't see them clearly. That's why one's own family always knows so little about one. You can't see the wood for the trees. In the first minutes a stranger sees more. I don't say that I know Dunbar as well as you do—I only say that I probably see things in him that you don't see."
They had been so close to one another during this last hour that he felt as though he could see, as through clear water, deep into her mind.
He knew that, during those last minutes, she had been struggling desperately. She came up to him victorious and, smiling and putting her hand into his, said:
"Tell me what you think about him."
"Simply that he seems to me a wonderful fellow. He seems to you, I expect, a little dull. You've always laughed at him a bit, and for that very reason, and because he's loved you for so long, he's tongue-tied when you're there and shy of showing you what he really thinks about things. He has immense qualities of character—fidelity, honesty, devotion, courage—things simply beyond price, and if you loved him and showed him that you did you'd probably see quite new things—fun and spontaneity and imagination—things that he had always been afraid to show you until now."
Her hand trembled in his.
"You speak," she said, "as though you thought that you were so much older than both of us. I don't feel that you are. Can't you——" she broke off. He knew what she would say.
"My dear," and his voice was eloquently paternal, "I am older than both of you—years and years older. Not physically, perhaps, so much, but in every other kind of way. I am an old fogey, nothing else. You've both of you been kind to me to-night, but in the morning, when ordinary life begins again, you'll soon see what a stuffy old thing I am. No, no. Think of me as your uncle. But don't miss—oh, don't miss!—the love of a man like Dunbar. There's so little of that unselfish devoted love in the world, and when it comes to you it's a crime to miss it."
"But you can't force yourself to love any one!" she cried, sharply.
"No, you can't force yourself, but it's strange what seeing new qualities in some one, looking at some one from another angle, will do. Try and look at him as though you'd met him for the first time, forget that you've known him always. I tell you that he's one in a million!"
"Yes, he's good," she answered softly. "He's been wonderful to me always. If he'd been less wonderful perhaps—I don't know, perhaps I'd have loved him more. But why are we talking about it? Aren't I married as it is?"
"Oh that!" He made a little gesture of repulsion. "We must get rid of that at once."
"It won't be very difficult," she answered, dropping her voice to a whisper. "He hasn't been faithful to me—even during these weeks."
He put his arm round her and held her close as though he were truly her father. "Poor child!" he said, "poor child!"
She trembled in his arms.
"You——" she began. "You——? Don't you——?" She could say no more.
"I'm your friend," he answered, "to the end of life. Your old avuncular friend. That's my job. Think of your young friend freshly. See what a fellow he is. I tell you that's a man!"
She did not answer him, but stayed there hiding her head in his coat.
There was a long silence, then, stroking her hair, he said:
"Hesther dear. I'm going to try once again." He got up and, putting his hands trumpet-wise to his mouth, shouted through the fog:
"Dunbar! Dunbar! Dunbar!"
This time there was an answer, clear and definite. "Hallo! Hallo! Hallo!" He turned excitedly to her. She also sprang to his feet. "He's there! I can hear him!"
"Dunbar! Dunbar!"
The answer came more clearly: "Hallo! Hallo! Hallo!"
They continued to exchange cries. Sometimes the reply was faint. Once it seemed to be lost altogether. Then suddenly it was close at hand. A ghostly figure was shadowed.
Dunbar came running.