"Off you go," he said, "and mind you take great care of her, Bob."
Admiral Tresize liked Bob very much, and always welcomed him to Penwennack. He remembered that he had Trelawney blood in his veins, and, although his father had been a Quaker doctor, he made no secret of the fact that he liked the boy, and he often spoke of him as a nice, quiet, clever lad.
"Fine-looking chap too," he would add; "just the build for a soldier. Six feet in his stockings, and forty inches around the chest. But there, although he has the looks of a Trelawney, he has the views of his Quaker father, and it's no use talking about it. But it's a pity all the same, a great pity."
"Well, Bob, I hear you have done great things at Oxford. Astonished the professors, swept everything before you, and all that sort of thing," said Nancy, as presently they stood on the headland.
Bob laughed, and looked rather shamefaced. He was very sensitive about his scholastic achievements, besides which he knew that Nancy thought far more of a "blue" than of a classical scholar.
"You are fairly clever, you know, Bob," and the girl laughed as she spoke.
"That does not count much with you, Nancy."
"How do you know? It doesn't follow that because I don't like dressing like a frump, and because I love hunting and dancing, that I don't admire cleverness."
"It's not that at all, Nancy. I know you admire clever people. What I meant was," and he stammered painfully, "that—that it's—a matter of indifference to you whether I, personally, am dull or clever."
"What reason have you for saying that?"
"Hundreds," replied Bob. "That is—you see, you are always laughing at my desire to be 'a fusty bookworm,' as you call it, and—and, well, all that sort of thing."
"Does that prove indifference?" she replied, and Bob thought he noted a tremor in her voice.
"You know it does," he went on, hating himself for talking in such a fashion, and yet unable to control his words. "Only yesterday, when we were talking together at tea, and some one said that I should die an old bachelor, you said that I was far more likely to die an old maid. Then, although you saw you wounded me, you went off with Captain Trevanion."
"Hadn't you, just before, refused to stay the evening, although I went out of my way to persuade you? And you gave as your excuse that you had some reading to do. As though your—your books——"
"Did you want me to stay?" asked Bob eagerly. "Nancy—did you really care?"
The girl did not speak, but turned her eyes toward the great heaving sea.
Robert's heart beat wildly as he looked at her. Never did he love her as he loved her now, never had she seemed so fair to him. It was no wonder he had fallen in love with her, for he knew that, in spite of her love of pleasure, and her sometimes flippant way of talking, she was one of the sweetest, truest girls that ever breathed. Although she might be wilful, and passionate, and sometimes seemed careless whether she gave pain or pleasure, she would give her last farthing to help any one in difficulty.
He had been surprised when she suggested his motoring her to Gurnard's Head that afternoon, little thinking that she did it to atone for what she had said two days before.
"Nancy, did you want me to stay?" he repeated. "If—if I thought you really——"
"Did it vex you that I asked Captain Trevanion to show me his new horse?" she interrupted.
The flush on her face and the tremor of her lips set his heart beating more wildly than ever. All caution went to the winds. The mad passion which for years he had been trying to crush again mastered him. He knew that his hour had come, and that he must speak and know his fate.
CHAPTER II
"Nancy," repeated Bob, "you know what is in my heart, don't you? Know
I've loved you for years?"
"You've never told me so," and there was a suggestion of a laugh in
Nancy's voice.
"Because I was afraid. How could I dare to—to tell you—when—when you never gave a sign, and when—you seemed to like others better? Others have wanted you, I know that; fellows—better looking than I, more—more attractive than I, and with far better prospects. I am not your sort of fellow—I know that; but—you've known all along that I loved you. I've been afraid to tell you so, but I would willingly shed my life's blood for you."
"I hate a coward!" cried the girl.
"Yes, I've known that; but then, how dared I speak when a fellow like Trevanion, heir to a title, and captain in a crack regiment, would give his life to get you? What chance had I?"
"Then why do you tell me this now?"
"Because I can't help myself. Because—Nancy, is there any chance? I know your father would be mad, but I wouldn't mind that a bit. Nancy, is there any hope for me?"
Again the girl's lips became tremulous as she looked at the waves lashing themselves to foam on the great black rocks, while the sea-birds soared overhead. It was easy to see she was greatly moved, although it was her nature to hide her feelings.
"I don't know, Bob."
It did not seem like Nancy's voice at all. It was almost hoarse, and she had a difficulty in speaking.
"Don't know?" he repeated. "Then—then——"
"I want to speak plainly. Bob. I may hurt you, although—I'll try not to. Yes, I have believed that—you cared for me. I suppose I've seen it, and I expect I've been vexed that you've never told me. I—I wanted you to."
"Wanted me to!" cried Bob. "You have never given me a chance.
And—and you always seemed to care for—for those other fellows."
"I wanted you to make your chances. If—if a man loves a girl, he should dare anything to get her. Anything. What do I care about Hector Trevanion? He hasn't a thought in his head above his latest horse and his newest uniform. But how could I help being friendly with him, when you—have always on the slightest pretext been ready to leave me with him."
"And you wanted me all the time!" There was a note of joy and triumph in his voice.
"I don't know," replied the girl. "I'll be absolutely frank with you, Bob. You are not the sort of man I wanted to love. Yes, I'll admit it—I wanted to love a soldier, a sailor, a man of action. I can never admire a man who will be content to spend his days in a library poring over old dusty books. That's why I have been angry when I've heard you glorifying these useless old fossils. And yet—oh, Bob!" and the girl concluded with a sob.
"Do you mean," and Bob's voice was tremulous, "that you cared for me all the time, although you—you didn't like my plans for my future? That you preferred me to Trevanion? Oh, Nancy!"
"As though a girl must care for six feet of flesh without brains because she isn't a blue-stocking. Why—why—couldn't you see, Bob?"
"And I say—oh, Nancy, does this mean that you care for me—love me?"
"I'm afraid I do," she half-laughed, half-sobbed.
"Afraid?"
"Yes, don't you see? You are not in the least like the man I wanted to love. You could have won your blue as a cricketer, but you wouldn't take the trouble to get it. A man in Oxford told me that you could be the best three-quarter in the 'Varsity Rugby team, but that you were too lazy to play. You've