She wheeled him along the grassy paths, and he asked her to stop and pick him a rose, but when she offered it, he saw only the roses in her cheeks—smelt only the perfume of her hair.
“Mavis, Mavis,” he whispered, “will you come back to England with us—with me—when we go? It seems too soon to speak—I’m an old crock—old before my time—but you have brought me back to life and hope. I can’t tell you what we have been through, Alan and I. Some day you shall know the whole story. Meanwhile may I hope? I love you with my whole soul. Come back to England with me as my wife!”
The hazel eyes grew tender as Mavis bent over the chair and smoothed the thin hand that lay on the coverlet. “I do care,” she whispered tremulously. “I have grown to care a great deal—but are you sure? I know so little of you both. I realize you have been through some terrible experiences. I won’t question you, I will trust you, but isn’t it wiser to wait? Wait until you are stronger. Perhaps in England there was a girl once,” the pretty lips trembled, “a girl you once cared for. She may be waiting still—but you have been ill, and have forgotten.”
“No,” said Desmond firmly. “There has never been a woman in my life. I swear it—never.” Suddenly, as he spoke, there came before his eyes the picture of a purple woman leaping into the flames—Kaweeka. “My God!” he cried, “listen, Mavis! I’m not worthy of you. One day I will tell you everything. It is true there was a woman once—” Mavis stifled a cry. “Listen. She wasn’t a woman of this world, but like Jez-Riah, the woman who was with us when we came here. I did not love her—I think I loathed her, but she was like a siren. She exercised an unholy power over me. Mavis—she asked me to marry her.”
“Did you?” in a whisper.
A flush of shame came over the white face. “Yes, Mavis,” hoarsely. “For weeks I lived in her house—until my cousin found me. When he appeared she did her best to woo him also. She cast me aside, but he was strong where I had been weak. No overture she made was strong enough to tempt him. He it was who brought me to my senses and saved me from everlasting shame.”
“You loved her?”
“No! A thousand times no! Mavis—it’s difficult to explain. Our whole story is so improbable, so fantastic, that without certain undeniable proofs which we hold, it would be considered as the phantasy of a disordered brain. This woman was nothing to me really; when we were together I loathed and hated her—almost feared her, but I was clay in her hands. It was a difficult situation—at that time I did not understand her language or the ways of her people. Oh, how can I make you understand! She wanted me as a new kind of toy. She knew nothing of morality or life as we know it. Her power was almost mesmeric.”
“Is she living still?”
“No. She died—oh, years ago,” passing his hand wearily across his brow. “I am sorry, Mavis. I had forgotten. I had no right to speak to you, but all recollection of Kaweeka had faded from my mind until you spoke of another woman. Will you forget what I said? I beg of you, don’t despise me too much.”