White Fire Part 7

And what could she possibly want to say to him?

Possibly--quite likely--in the excitement of the evening's proceedings she had felt an impulse to do something more for the mission cause than she had done hitherto.

That was it, no doubt. Well, they could do with Miss Arnot's a.s.sistance. Funds were never too ample for the work that cried aloud to be done.

He was evidently expected. The maid led him along the hall, through green baize doors, down a pa.s.sage, into the library, a beautiful and cosy room such as he had imagined wealthy people might possibly possess, if, in addition to all their other possessions, they possessed a love of books. It overlooked the garden and the Park, and was as bright and secluded a little holy of holies as the most devoted wors.h.i.+pper of the sacred flame might desire. The Island Mission houses were--not exactly geographically perhaps, but in every other attribute and particular--the absolute antipodes and ant.i.thesis of this charming little sanctum. The walls were lined with bookcases full of richly bound books, the table was strewn with books and magazines, among which, and queening it over them all, stood a great night-blue bowl of white lilac, filling the room with the perfume of the spring. There was a cheerful little fire of mixed peat and logs on a flat hearth, with bra.s.s dogs and chains. A sudden whiff of the peat, as he pa.s.sed the hearth, carried him in an instant back into his boyhood.

He glanced at the bountiful shelves, with the hungry look of the student whose pocket had never at any time been able to keep pace with his appet.i.te. For knowledge of books is good, and possession of books is good, but knowledge and possession combined are still much better.

He was standing looking out into the garden whence the lilac had come, when Miss Arnot came quietly in.

He turned and bowed. He had made up his mind to hold himself tightly, but her welcoming hand drew forth his own, and carried his first line of defence in a walk-over.

"It was good of you to come," she said impulsively, "and I thank you.

I know your time is very short, and you must have much to do."

"Yes, there is much to do," he said very quietly. "But I am grateful to you for, at all events, affording me another opportunity of thanking you in person----" But she stopped him with a peremptory little hand.

How beautiful she was, with her wistful face and commanding little ways! There was even more than usual of strenuous inquiry in those s.h.i.+ning eyes of hers.

"You are going back on the first of May?"

Her speech was more rapid than usual. He saw that she was excited.

Probably the remembrance of last night's meeting still held her, he thought.

"Yes, on the first of May. And then----I hardly think it likely I shall ever return to England."

"But why?" she jerked, in her old, quick, want-to-know way.

"Well--you see--I really feel as if I had no right to be here at all.

By rights I ought to be lying under a cairn on the beach of Dark Island."

"Oh, but that is simply morbid, and the result of your long illness.

You will not feel that way long."

"I hope not. The work is crying to be done. Perhaps, after all, I shall be able to help it more above ground than below."

"Of course you will. Don't you find it dreadfully lonely out there, with none but black people about you?"

"They are very fine people, some of them. And the loneliness only nails one the tighter to the work. Besides there are----"

"Has it never struck you that you might possibly help it quite as much by remaining here as by going out again?"

Oh, Jean! Jean!

"Never," he said, with a slight flush. "My work lies there, and I hope to give my life to it, and to give it up for it if need be, as my dear old friend gave his."

"But there are others who could do the work just as well, are there not?"

"Many, I hope. I hope many will."

"And, if I understand aright, Missionary Societies are always short of funds, and the work is hindered, or at all events progresses more slowly, in consequence."

"I have my own views as to that," he said quietly.

"Won't you tell me what they are? I am greatly interested."

"They are not shared by many of my friends, and I do not obtrude them.

I believe that the work is G.o.d's work, and when He sees fit to provide larger ways and means, larger ways and means will be forthcoming. If we had all the money we wanted, we might lose our heads, and go ahead too fast--scamp the work perhaps, and prove but jerry-builders in the end. One cannot forget that it has taken Christianity eighteen hundred years to arrive at its present position, and that for long periods it lay almost dormant; whereas, if the Founder had deemed it best to accomplish the work at one stroke, He could have done it."

"Yes," she said thoughtfully. "I don't think I ever looked at it in that light before. And you are quite determined to go back?"

"Quite determined--only too grateful for the chance."

"And nothing would keep you here?"

"Nothing that I can imagine--except absolute incapacity for the work."

"You would not stop even if"--and she bent forward, with hands tightly clasped to prevent them jumping visibly before him, and eyes that shone like stars. G.o.d! how beautiful she was!--"if I begged you to do so?"

He jumped up hastily.

"If you----? If you begged me to--what?"

And her bright eyes, fixed intently on his lean face, caught the sudden fierce clench of the teeth inside, which threw the cheek-bones into bolder prominence. She noted it--she could almost hear the grinding of his teeth; and the game was in her hands. She had the advantage of understanding what the game was, while he was completely in the dark.

He stood gazing down at her for a moment, and then said more quietly--

"I'm afraid I don't quite understand. Perhaps my illness has dulled my brain somewhat."

"No, it hasn't, Mr. Blair. I was asking you in cold blood if you would not stay in England and marry me, and use my money from here for the furtherance of the cause out there."

He stared at her still with all his great heart in his eyes--all of it that was not jumping in his throat like a baby rabbit.

He gazed down at her for another moment, then bent suddenly before her and took her hand and kissed it, and said huskily and in jerks--between the rabbit-kicks--

"You will think no ill of me--if I go--at once. I dare not stop----"

But she had gripped his hand and held it tight, and stood holding him, and her face shone and her eyes.

"Then--will you take me with you, Kenneth?"

"Take you with me?" Her rings cut into her next fingers under the fierceness of his sudden grip, and she could have sung aloud, for the grip came right from his heart and told his tale to her. "Do you mean it--Jean?"

"Surely."

And yet he had a doubt. You must bear with him. You see, he had been half inside the gates of death, and--well, the proceeding _was_ distinctly out of the common run of things.