“Dear old chap, you have all my good wishes.”
“I knew that you would be pleased,” Claude had said. “She is the sort of girl one only meets once in a lifetime. I have lived for a good many years in the world now, and yet I never met any girl worthy of a thought alongside Agnes. How on earth you have remained in her neighbourhood for a year without falling in love with her yourself is a mystery to me.”
A sudden flash came to Dick's eyes, and he was at the point of crying out, “Have I so remained?” But his usual habits of self-control prevented his showing to his brother what was in his heart He had merely given a laugh as he said:
“I suppose it must always seem mysterious to a man in love that every one else in the world does not display symptoms of the same malady.”
“I daresay you are right,” Claude had answered, after a pause. “Yes, I daresay--only--ah!--Agnes is very different from all the other girls in the world.”
Ah! you lovers are all cast in the same mould. But how about your projected exploration--you can scarcely expect her to rough it with you at the upper reaches of the Zambesi?”
Claude Westwood looked grave. For some weeks he had talked about nothing else except the splendid possibilities of the Upper Zambesi to explorers; and his brother had offered to share the expenses of an expedition thoroughly well-equipped to do all that Livingstone and Baines left undone in that fascinating quarter of Africa.
“Perhaps she will refuse me,” said Claude.
“Ah! perhaps; but if she does not refuse you?”
There was a long pause. Claude rose from his chair and walked to the window. He looked out over the sloping lawns and the terraced Italian garden; the blue swallows were skimming the surface of the huge marble basin where the water-lilies floated. He seemed greatly interested in the movements of the birds.
At last he turned suddenly round to his brother, and laid his hand on his shoulder, saying:
“Dick, I should like to win her. I should like to offer her a name--the name of a man who has done something in the world. Whatever happens I am bound to make the expedition to the Zambesi.”
Dick Westwood had, while sitting before the empty grate, recalled all the incidents of eight years before--he recollected how a level ray of the red sunlight had flickered through the leaves of the copper beech and made rosy his brother's face--he could still feel the strong clasp of his hand as they had separated to dress for the dinner which Admiral Mowbray was giving that evening. He remembered how Agnes had looked at the head of the table--oh, he had felt even then that she was not for him, but for his brother--how could he have fancied for a moment that he would have a chance of her love when Claude was near?