The moon was rising, and looking at the Sergeant, Bellew saw that there was a wonderful light in his face, yet a light that was not of the moon.
"Sergeant," said Bellew, laying a hand upon his shoulder, "why don't you speak to her?"
"Speak to her,—what me! No, no, Mr. Bellew!" said the Sergeant, hastily. "No, no,—can't be done, sir,—not to be mentioned, or thought of, sir!" The light was all gone out of his face, now, and he walked with his chin on his breast.
"The surprising thing to me, Sergeant, is that you have never thought of putting your fortune to the test, and—speaking your mind to her, before now."
"Thought of it, sir!" repeated the Sergeant, bitterly, "thought of it!—Lord, sir! I've thought of it—these five years—and more. I've thought of it—day and night. I've thought of it so very much that I know—I never can—speak my mind to her. Look at me!" he cried suddenly, wheeling and confronting Bellew, but not at all like his bold, erect, soldierly self,—"Yes, look at me,—a poor, battered, old soldier—with his—best arm gone,—left behind him in India, and with nothing in the world but his old uniform,—getting very frayed and worn,—like himself, sir,—a pair o' jack boots, likewise very much worn, though wonderfully patched, here and there, by my good comrade, Peterday,—a handful of medals, and a very modest pension. Look at me, with the best o' my days behind me, and wi' only one arm left—and I'm a deal more awkward and helpless with that one arm than you'd think, sir,—look at me, and then tell me how could such a man dare to speak his mind to—such a woman. What right has—such a man to even think of speaking his mind to—such a woman, when there's part o' that man already in the grave? Why, no right, sir,—none in the world. Poverty, and one arm, are facts as make it impossible for that man to—ever speak his mind. And, sir—that man—never will. Sir,—good night to you!—and a pleasant walk!—I turn back here."
Which the Sergeant did, then and there, wheeling sharp right about face; yet, as Bellew watched him go, he noticed that the soldier's step was heavy, and slow, and it seemed that, for once, the Sergeant had even forgotten to put on his imaginary spurs.
CHAPTER XV
In which Adam explains
"Adam!"
"Yes, Miss Anthea."