CHAPTER XIV.

"Another day. Never was mortal so glad to behold daylight," ejaculated Vane Charteris, yawning with all the weariness of one who has seen the long hours of a sleepless night glide past.

This is somewhat an unusual experience for our hero, but for once mind has so far triumphed over matter as to keep the drowsy god Somnus far away. A day and a night have been passed in vexing thought. Now when the first golden beams of sunshine gild the sea, he rises weary and unrefreshed, and goes for a stroll on the shore, this early outing being also a novel experience for him.

Early as it appears to him, others are astir before him. He meets several people returning from an early morning dip in the briny element.

Down on the sands he comes face to face with a vision fresh and fair as the summer morn itself--Reine, in a graceful boating dress, stepping lightly into a little boat that rides at anchor on the tide.

As she takes up the oars with consummate skill, his voice falls on her hearing, giving her a shock of surprise:

"Good morning; will you carry a passenger?"

She lifts to him her lovely face, flushed with a Hebe-like bloom, the light of the new day sunning itself goldenly in her pansy-dark eyes.

Somehow in this out-of-doors chance encounter there is none of the embarrassment that would attend a formal meeting in the house. There is even some of the old time _badinage_ and sauciness in her tones as she replies:

"Can I believe my ears or my eyes? Mr. Charteris out at this unheard-of hour? I thought you 'never, never----'"

"'Well, hardly ever,'" he returns, with a spice of malice. "How came you to do it yourself?"

"Because I always _do_, you know," she returns, smilingly. "I have been out some time; I have had a glorious bath in the sea this morning, have you?"

He laughs no, and again renews his petition to be taken in, to which she assents, carelessly.

"I did not know you could manage a boat," he observes, as with a skillful sweep of the oars she turns the little craft forward, dancing lightly on the crest of the waves.

"Did you not? Well, that is not strange, seeing how little you know of me anyway. I am a good swimmer, too. You would not have guessed that?" she says, lightly.

"No, and yet it is a knowledge all women should possess," he returns. "Where have you learned these things?"

"My father taught me. He wanted me to be thorough in such things as well as in more lady-like accomplishments."

"He must have been a sensible man," Mr. Charteris comments to himself, and then there is a silence broken only by the soft, steady splash of the oars in the water. An embarrassing consciousness has fallen over both. Vane is thinking to himself that after all there may be some excuse for the _brusquerie_ and wildness of the little savage, as he sometimes unkindly termed her in his thoughts. He remembers what Maud had told him of her tuition under her father. Masculine training would be apt to give her that touch of wildness.

She in her turn studies him shyly, but intently. She sees the haggard impress of the sleepless night on the pale, handsome face, and about the dark-blue eyes, with their slight heaviness and the faint blue circles around them. Impulsively she speaks:

"You have thought the matter well over. You will forego your revenge and save Maud?"

"Why should you think so? What sign have I given of yielding?" he asks, curiously.

"Your face, even your voice betrays you. If you had decided to refuse my prayer, you would look and speak differently. You would despise yourself, and your very looks would reveal it."

"I did not know you were such a close observer," he replies, "but it is true. You have saved me from myself, Reine."

As he speaks he leans forward, tossing a folded paper into her lap. The oars lie idle a moment, as they drift at the mercy of the wind and tide, while she reads the precious note.

Then she lifts her eyes, full of eloquent thankfulness, to his face.

"I expected no less of you," she says. "I knew you could not be so cruel to Maud."

The handsome blonde face darkens.

"It was not solely for Maud's sake," he replies. "Pray remember that I would not have yielded to you, Reine, only--only you showed me so plainly what a monster I was, and how truly I would be that false girl's murderer if I persevered. And then--then, I could not bear to have my wife ashamed of me."

He looks away consciously as he speaks. A thousand tingling little arrows of rapture shoot through her frame as the low words, "my wife," fall from his lips; spoken not harshly nor sneeringly, but kindly, almost tenderly. Is it possible, she asks herself, in thrilling silence, that he may one day forgive her, and be kind to her--nay, even give her love for love?

"I remembered," he goes on, even more kindly, "that this was the _first_ request my wife had made of me, and I could not choose but grant it."

He can be dangerously winning when he pleases. It pleased him to be so then--perhaps to try his power over her. The result is quite satisfactory. The rich color leaps to her cheeks, the light of joy flashes into her deep, dark eyes, the low-breathed answer is freighted with emotion.

"I thank you more than I can express for your kindness," she answers, earnestly. "You make me very happy."

"Then, while you are in that pleasant mood, there is something I must ask you," he ventures.

"Yes?" She flashes him a bright, swift look of inquiry.

He is silent for a moment. He has an air of confusion that does not sit ill upon him.

"Reine," he says, "it was all a mistake, your traveling under your maiden name. It--it places you in a false position."

"No one knows aught of us here--it cannot matter," she replies, with a blush, and quickly-drawn breath.

He studies the beautiful face attentively. How fair, how young, how lovely it is. How sweet the heart-shaped, crimson lips, how long and dark the lashes that droop against her cheeks. How luxuriant and long the silken tresses that float like a banner on the fresh morning breeze. And she loves him; some strange, sweet thrill strikes through him whenever he recalls the truth she had owned with such pathetic frankness.

"I have acted badly--no one realizes that fact more than I do," he continues, gravely; "but, Reine that is past. I am your husband; you are my wife, shall we let bygones be bygones and begin again?"

"You mean----" she says, giving him a little wondering look.

"I mean," he replies, "that I will go back to America to-day with you, and I will try to do my duty by you in future if only you will forgive me for shirking it in the first instance, and running away in such a dastardly fashion."

Two crimson spots rise into her cheeks, her lashes fall lower.

"But--but we are not going back to-day," she explains, in an agitated voice, telling him what her uncle's physician had said.

"Not get away for two weeks?" he says. "Very well, Reine, then I shall leave the Haven of Rest and come to stay at Sea View Hotel, and it must be publicly made known that you are mine."

"Indeed you will not, then," she breaks out with sudden self-assertion. "I am not willing."

"Not willing?" he cries, and Reine's quick ear fancies it detects a tone of relief in his voice. "You refuse to be my wife, Reine--woman-like, taking revenge for a transient wrong."

"It is not that," she says, falteringly; "I am not angry with you, Vane, but it is best to--to wait."

"Until when?" he asks, bending his curious eyes on the bright, arch face.

And looking frankly at him, she replies, gently:

"Until love comes."

"Until love comes?" he repeats, blankly. "But I thought you owned----"

"Yes, I know," she says, checking him with uplifted finger, "but I mean mutual love."

With a light dip of the oars she whirls the boat around on its homeward way. The graceful head is poised in a free, half-haughty fashion. He cannot understand the strange look on the dusky, lovely face. It is neither pride nor humility, yet a strange blending of both.

After a moment she says in her clear, sweet voice, toned to a softer cadence than usual:

"Do not think me stubborn that I refuse to own your claim just now, Vane--I am proud in my own way. I cannot come to you until you wish it from your heart."

He is silent, gazing at her in sheer perplexity. She goes on gently:

"You see I was deceived at first, Vane--not willfully--I do not accuse you of _that_, but I fancied there must be in your heart some little spark of tenderness for love to grow upon. When I found out my mistake--how my uncle had forced the match upon you, and how but for my too eager consent Maud might have been yours, I--well, _it was hard to bear_! So I would rather wait, Vane--until the year you wished is over. Perhaps by then, the soreness of your regret for--another--will be past, and your heart may be open to me."

Has the moisture of the sea got into his eyes that they look so dim? He draws his handkerchief across them, and can find no words to answer. So she resumes, after a minute's weary waiting:

"I am not perverse, Vane. I am not fighting against my fate--only trying to make the best of it. You will give me a fair chance to win your heart before I wear your name? Will you not?"

"Yes," he answers, wondering at her strangeness.

"Thank you. Now we will return to my uncle. I will take the liberty to invite you to breakfast with him. Will you come?"

"Yes, thank you," he replies, and the little boat touching the shore, they spring out and go up the walk together, both very silent and thoughtful. He begins to think that Mr. Langton's quaint phrase of yesterday is true. "There is more in Reine than we suspected."