Wantele stared at Richard Maule; it was the first time his cousin had ever uttered the word in his presence.
"If I were God—Providence—Fate—and gave you your choice, would you choose that Lingard should marry Jane or that you should marry her?"
And as Wantele still stared at him in amazement: "Take it from me—I have never deceived you—that the choice is open to you. I don't wish to hurry you. Take a few moments to think it over."
"I—I don't understand," stammered Wantele.
"There is no necessity for you to understand. In fact I hope that, after to-night, you will dismiss the whole of this conversation from your mind. But I repeat—the choice is open to you."
And he added, musingly, "I think, Dick, that with the others out of the way you could make Jane happy—in time." But there was doubt—painful, deliberating doubt, in his tone.
Wantele shook his head.
"I don't agree," he said shortly. "You see, Richard, Jane"—he moistened his lips—"Jane's never loved me. She loves Lingard. And so, if God gave me the choice, I would give her to Lingard."
"You think well of the man?" Maule spoke lightly, and as if he himself had no reason to dissent from any word commending the soldier.
"You mustn't ask me to judge Lingard"—the words were difficult to utter, and he brought them out with difficulty. "I've been there, you see. I know what the poor devil's going through. I loved you, Richard—but that didn't save me. Lingard loved Jane, I believe he still loves her, and—and I should take him to be a man jealous of his honour—but neither his love nor his honour has saved him."