'No, no,' he said vehemently, 'I would much rather have a cigarette.

It's a cleaner habit than pipe-smoking, isn't it?'

I smiled faintly and mentally decided that when we were married I would not allow him to deprive himself of one of his greatest joys for my sake.

There was another long silence and then, feeling extremely nervous, I murmured haltingly, 'I--I--wonder if you missed me when I was away nursing my great sick aunt--I--I--mean my sick great-aunt.

Did--did--the time seem long?'

'I--I'm not quite sure,' he stammered, obviously as ill at ease as myself. 'You see, to be perfectly frank, Miss Warrington, I was at the time in love as far as I believe, and it seems a confused period.'

I waited for him to continue, my eyes discreetly lowered. As, however, he did not go on, I raised them again.

'Yes?' I said encouragingly.

'That's all,' he replied. He looked so embarra.s.sed and unhappy, and wore such an imploring expression I realized that now or never I must come to his relief.

I laid down my knitting and leaned forward. 'Mr. Rawlings,' I said impressively--'or, shall I say William--I have known of the state of your feelings towards me for some time now.'

He raised his head, and there was no disguising the look of hope in his eye. 'Do you really mean that?' he asked eagerly.

I nodded. 'I want to tell you not to be afraid. However harsh I once seemed to you, the sight of your devotion and self-sacrifice has touched me.'

'Devotion--self-sacrifice,' he murmured in a wondering tone.

'As such do I regard them, William. But they have reaped their reward.

I . . . how shall I tell you . . . it is so difficult . . .'

I paused in some distress, wondering if Queen Victoria had felt as uncomfortable about it as I did.

'I want to tell you that . . . I love you, William,' I said at last, very softly.

There was an intense silence, broken only by his laboured breathing.

The intensity of his emotions was evidently too much for him.

'And so,' I concluded, raising my eyes to his for a moment, 'I am going to be your wife.'

There! It was out at last. Having spoken I lowered my eyes again and did not look at him until I heard him say in a strained kind of voice, 'But--but--this is too much honour. Believe me, Miss Warrington, I am not worthy----'

'I think you are,' I replied softly, 'and isn't that enough?'

'It isn't enough--I a.s.sure you it isn't,' he replied. I noted that his eyes had a rather staring look and slight beads of perspiration had broken out on his forehead--he must be a man of strong emotions. 'It would be a most unfair thing for a man like me, with all my shortcomings, to inflict myself on any woman.'

'Don't be too modest about yourself,' I put in encouragingly, and somewhat timidly laying my hand on his, I added, 'I like you as you are.'

'Nothing would induce me to let you sacrifice yourself,' he exclaimed hotly, 'it would be monstrous, intolerable!' He sprang to his feet as he spoke. 'I must go at once,' he went on, 'we can never meet again, never, never!'

I rose also, going rather pale. In that moment a dreadful thought came to me that perhaps I had made a mistake. Yet there could have been no misconstruing what he had said to Elizabeth regarding his pa.s.sion for me.

'Stop, William!' I cried as he retreated to the door, 'why are you so obtuse? Don't you understand how difficult you are making everything for me--as well as for yourself! What is all this talk of sacrifice and your unworthiness. I don't think you are unworthy. I--I--love you--isn't it enough when I say that?'

[Ill.u.s.tration: 'Stop, William!' Marion cried.]

Involuntarily I stretched out my hands to him as I spoke. He has told me since that the sight of me standing there bathed in the light of the rose-shaded lamp, my eyes and lips unusually soft and tender (so he says), with my arms held out to him, forms a picture that he will never forget. He looked at me for a moment in absolute silence, and appeared to be thinking deeply. When at last he spoke he made an astonishing remark. 'What does it matter about me, after all?' he murmured slowly, as if speaking to himself. 'Good G.o.d, little woman, I was just about to act the part of a consummate cad and coward!'

He then strode up to me and continued in a serious tone: 'If you care enough for me to take me with all my faults, I shall be proud to be your husband.'

After which he bent and kissed me very gravely on the forehead, and surprised me by walking out of the room. It was the most remarkable proposal. But then, in every way, my dear William is a most remarkable man.

CHAPTER XIX

There was something distinctly puzzling about Marion's engagement to William. It was William who puzzled me. Instinctively I knew he was not happy. Had I been instrumental in bringing about the match, I should have felt disturbed, but as it happened, they pulled it off without the slightest a.s.sistance from me. It is the best way. I am steadily determined never to involve myself in matrimonial schemes for any one in future. Even when The Kid gets old enough to have love affairs, she will get my advice and sympathy, but no active co-operation on my part.

But to return to William. Though he seemed plunged in gloom, Marion was radiant. She gaily prepared her trousseau, and took William on long shopping expeditions from which he returned more overcast than ever. Sometimes I wondered if he had really got over his infatuation for Gladys, and if he had merely proposed to Marion out of pique. A strange foreboding came over me that all was not going well.

This was deepened when Marion came to me one day with her eyes red as though she had been weeping.

'Is anything wrong?' I inquired, an instinctive fear gripping at my heart. 'You surely haven't quarrelled with William?'

She shook her head. 'Can you imagine William quarrelling with any one?'

I could not. He is one of those comfortable people with whom you can be perfectly frank and outspoken without fear of giving the slightest offence. If I say to him when he is deep in a learned discussion with Henry, 'Do shut up, William, I can't think when you're talking,' he does not snort, glare at me, breathe hard or show any other signs of inward resentment. He at once relapses into silence--an affable silence, not the strained kind when the offended party takes deep respirations through the nose--and I am allowed to think without interruption. It is one of the reasons why I have never minded Henry having him about the place at any time.

'Then if you and William haven't quarrelled, what is wrong?' I asked of the drooping Marion.

'It's--it's about our wedding, Netta. He wants to know if I'll put it off for another six months.'

I started. 'Why should he wish to do that now, with all arrangements made?'

'I don't know. There isn't the slightest reason for delay. It isn't a case of money, for you know he has a good private income, and I have my own little income as well. Then, we are both old enough to know our own minds--yet he says he thinks we ought to have more time for reflection. What can it mean, Netta?'

I was silent for a moment, not liking to voice my uneasy thoughts.

'It isn't that I mind the extra six months' delay,' she went on, 'but I don't like the idea of postponing the wedding. There is something unlucky about it.'

'You're right--it is unlucky,' said the voice of Elizabeth, coming unexpectedly into the discussion.

'Elizabeth,' I said sternly, 'do you mean to tell me you were listening?'

She drew herself up with dignity. 'Me listenin'! I've too much to do to go poking myself into other people's bizness. But I wos just comin'

in to ask wot you wanted for dinner----'

'I have already given orders for dinner, Elizabeth.'

'Well, I musta forgotten 'em. An' just as I was comin' in I 'eard Miss Marryun talkin' about Mr. Roarings wantin' to put the weddin' orf.

Don't you let 'im do it, miss. I've 'eard o' young women puttin' off their weddin's so long that in the end they've never took place at all.

I've 'ad it 'appen to myself, so I _know_.'