Growing boy--over-exertion in the morning! That was all! He was himself very quickly, and walked up to bed without assistance.
Rotten of him! Never was anyone more ashamed of his little weakness than this boy.Now that he was really a trifle indisposed, he simply could not bear the idea of being nursed at all or tended.Almost rudely he had got away.Only when he was in bed did he remember the look on her face as he left her.How wistful and unhappy, seeming to implore him to forgive her! As if there were anything to forgive! As if she had not made him perfectly happy when she danced with him! He longed to say to her:
"If I might be close to you like that one minute every day, then Idon't mind all the rest!" Perhaps he would dare say that to-morrow.Lying there he still felt a little funny.He had forgotten to close the ribs of the blinds, and moonlight was filtering in; but he was too idle, too drowsy to get up now and do it.They had given him brandy, rather a lot--that perhaps was the reason he felt so queer; not ill, but mazy, as if dreaming, as if he had lost the desire ever to move again.Just to lie there, and watch the powdery moonlight, and hear faraway music throbbing down below, and still feel the touch of her, as in the dance she swayed against him, and all the time to have the scent about him of flowers! His thoughts were dreams, his dreams thoughts--all precious unreality.And then it seemed to him that the moonlight was gathered into a single slip of pallor--there was a thrumming, a throbbing, and that shape of moonlight moved towards him.It came so close that he felt its warmth against his brow; it sighed, hovered, drew back soundless, and was gone.He must have fallen then into dreamless sleep....
What time was it when he was awakened by that delicate 'rat-tat' to see his tutor standing in the door-way with a cup of tea?
Was young Lennan all right? Yes, he was perfectly all right--would be down directly! It was most frightfully good of Mr.Stormer to come! He really didn't want anything.
Yes, yes; but the maimed and the halt must be attended to!
His face seemed to the boy very kind just then--only to laugh at him a very little--just enough.And it was awfully decent of him to have come, and to stand there while he drank the tea.He was really all right, but for a little headache.Many times while he was dressing he stood still, trying to remember.That white slip of moonlight? Was it moonlight? Was it part of a dream; or was it, could it have been she, in her moonlight-coloured frock? Why had he not stayed awake? He would not dare to ask her, and now would never know whether the vague memory of warmth on his brow had been a kiss.
He breakfasted alone in the room where they had danced.There were two letters for him.One from his guardian enclosing money, and complaining of the shyness of the trout; the other from his sister.
The man she was engaged to--he was a budding diplomat, attached to the Embassy at Rome--was afraid that his leave was going to be curtailed.They would have to be married at once.They might even have to get a special licence.It was lucky Mark was coming back so soon.They simply MUST have him for best man.The only bridesmaid now would be Sylvia....Sylvia Doone? Why, she was only a kid! And the memory of a little girl in a very short holland frock, with flaxen hair, pretty blue eyes, and a face so fair that you could almost see through it, came up before him.But that, of course, was six years ago; she would not still be in a frock that showed her knees, or wear beads, or be afraid of bulls that were never there.It was stupid being best man--they might have got some decent chap! And then he forgot all--for there was SHE, out on the terrace.In his rush to join her he passed several of the 'English Grundys,' who stared at him askance.Indeed, his conduct of the night before might well have upset them.An Oxford man, fainting in an hotel! Something wrong there!...
And then, when he reached her, he did find courage.
"Was it really moonlight?"
"All moonlight."
"But it was warm!"
And, when she did not answer that, he had within him just the same light, intoxicated feeling as after he had won a race at school.
But now came a dreadful blow.His tutor's old guide had suddenly turned up, after a climb with a party of Germans.The war-horse had been aroused in Stormer.He wished to start that afternoon for a certain hut, and go up a certain peak at dawn next day.But Lennan was not to go.Why not? Because of last night's faint; and because, forsooth, he was not some stupid thing they called 'an expert.' As if--! Where she could go he could! This was to treat him like a child.Of course he could go up this rotten mountain.
It was because she did not care enough to take him! She did not think him man enough! Did she think that he could not climb what--her husband--could? And if it were dangerous SHE ought not to be going, leaving him behind--that was simply cruel! But she only smiled, and he flung away from her, not having seen that all this grief of his only made her happy.
And that afternoon they went off without him.What deep, dark thoughts he had then! What passionate hatred of his own youth!
What schemes he wove, by which she might come back, and find him gone-up some mountain far more dangerous and fatiguing! If people did not think him fit to climb with, he would climb by himself.
That, anyway, everyone admitted, was dangerous.And it would be her fault.She would be sorry then.He would get up, and be off before dawn; he put his things out ready, and filled his flask.
