He turned to Elfrida, his face pale and miserable. He hardly knew what he was saying.
"He is coming—Ambert, I mean. He will ask you to go and see the houses with him."
"Is that all?" Elfrida looked amused.
"He is going to ask you to marry him."
"Isthatall!" She laughed now, merrily. Her lovely little face, that was so infantile, yet so strong and so determined beneath all its youth and sweetness, seemed now slightly mocking.
"Don't go with him," entreated Blount passionately. All in a moment the youth of his own face seemed to die from it. He looked strong and earnest. His eyes were lit with a fire she had not thought them capable of. She looked at him strangely for awhile. Then she smiled.
"Why should I not?" she asked gaily. She had quite recovered herself. Ambert was very close now, and she turned and smiled at him—a smile of encouragement.
He came up and gave her the cup she had asked for, not noticing Blount even by a bare nod. He made a point of being rude to Blount. She drank the coffee, and then consented to go with him to the vineries. She rose, her small, graceful figure, slender as an elf's, looking even more fragile than usual in her pale gown, and moved a step or two forward with Ambert at her side.
Blount rose too. The very bitterness of death seemed on him now. She was going—going from him for ever.
At that moment Elfrida turned her graceful neck, and stopped and held out her hand to him. The little trifler was true to her calling.
"Won't you come too, Mr. Blount? Do."
There was actual entreaty in her eyes. Blount would have refused her request but for that look. As a fact, Elfrida felt the proposal from Ambert was imminent, and though she desired it, she wilfully determined to put it off, as women sometimes will. Blount rose, and, regardless of Ambert's insolent air went with her towards the houses.
Miss Firs-Robinson laughed; she was having a right royal revenge.
"Elfrida's good to the poor, too; in fact, she's good to every one—except perhaps"—thoughtfully—"young men."
"To me," said Mrs. Greatorex spitefully, "she appears the very kindest girl I ever knew to young men, and, indeed, to old men, andallmen. She seems to have no other thought than for them."
"Just so. I said she was a flirt; but when she's married to Ambert she'll be cured of that."
"When sheis," said Mrs. Greatorex with emphasis and a peculiar smile.
Miss Firs-Robinson might have gone on again, adding more fuel to the fire, but a little rush of people out of the tent near them distracted her attention. Dicky Browne was leading, but was hard pressed by Agatha and Mrs. Poynter and a few others.
"What is it, Agatha?" asked Mrs. Greatorex, as the girl reached her.
"Sparks!" gasped Mr. Browne. "He says he wants to take us again."
"So we're flying—flying for our lives," said Dicky. "Stop us at your peril." He looked back. "Oh lawks, here he is!" said he; whereupon they all took to their heels again and disappeared into a bit of wood close to them.
Agatha was last; she turned aside, and, separating herself from the others, ran lightly up a little path that led towards a tangle of ferns and young trees—mere saplings. She knew the place well, and knew it to be solitary. No one would go there to-day, and she wanted to be alone to think. Half an hour ago Dillwyn had been called away to see a poor child in the village whose little hand had been badly scalded. He had passed Agatha when going, and had told her he would be back again in an hour or less. Without him the day seemed dull, and the thought of escaping from every one, of sitting alone in that small retreat until his return, was good to her. She wouldn't confess to herself that the idea of her getting away from Dr. Darkham had its charm too. She clung to the other thought. She could see the road by which Jack—she had grown to think of him as Jack— would return. Indeed, his shortest way would be straight through here. She told herself she was going to sit here and watch for his coming; and out of such telling no shame came to her heart. She loved him, and he loved her. And though he had not spoken, she believed he was waiting for her, until his prospects were brighter, surer. She laughed to herself over that. As if she cared about his prospects! She cared for nothing on earth but him himself—his dear,dearself.
She had gained her shelter now, and stood looking towards the road. Two of the young saplings were quite big boys now, and very tall for their age. They towered overher,at all events. They stood both together, and she stood between them, always with her beautiful face looking towards the road; and she twined her arms round these younglings, and so supported herself. All her thoughts were given to Dillwyn. So engrossed were they, indeed, that she heard no footstep behind her—knew of no approach, until the voice she hated above all others sounded on her ear.
....
She felt she was as pale as death as she turned to confront him.
"Dr. Darkham!You!" Her tone was cold, almost haughty.
"Yes. I followed you!" He looked at her, his eyes resting on her. Such strange eyes, they seemed on fire! And his tone—it was one she had never heard before.
As for Darkham, he stood there looking at her, gloating on her beauty—the beauty for which he had sold his soul. How sweet she was—a thing born of the gods! So tall, so slender, so defiant, so divine!
But in all his dreams of her, had she ever been as beautiful as now? She had still her arms round the young trees—she was, indeed, clinging to them now, as if demanding support of them— and her small shapely head and slender figure showed through them as though they formed a living panel.
Something other than the longing to be always with her had urged him towards this interview. The fear of losing her altogether! He had seen the way she went, and had followed her, and had rightly judged that she was waiting here to see Dillwyn return.
He knew Mrs. Greatorex. Money was a god to her, and she would strongly urge Agatha to act as he desired. She would condone the haste of his proposal. He could explain away all that by saying he feared to lose her—by a judicious hint about Dillwyn's attentions. He knew how that would annoy her. And she was an obstinate and determined woman, who would go all lengths to gain her own ends. He could see her to-night—a note would manage it.
"You followed me!" Her soft eyes flashed. "Why should you follow me?"
"You know," said Darkham. He advanced a step nearer to her. "Youmustknow."
His voice now was shaken with passion, and his face was deadly white. He was alone with her, far from every one, and he was going to tell her that he loved her. To him it was the moment of his life.
"I know nothing. I desire to know nothing."
The girl had stepped out now from between the trees, and was standing before him, quite calm, but with a little droop of the lids he was not slow to interpret. It meant disdain. But he cared for nothing now, save his one mad longing to tell her.
"You do know," said he in a strange voice. "I dare you to say otherwise. You know that I love you." It was out. It was said. The very air was ringing with it. He repeated it. To himself it seemed that he was shouting the great news, but in reality his voice was low—intense. "I love you. I have loved you always—always. Even whilst that woman lived. You know that, too. I have seen it in your eyes so often. No, not a word! Let me speak.... I have been silent so long."
"To be silent for ever would be better," said Agatha. She was very pale, but she had a certain courage of her own, and it stood to her, so far, most valiantly. "You must see what folly this is. Why do you speak? What good will it do you?"
"It means life!" said Darkham. "What nights, what days have been filled with my vain longing for such an hour as this! Tosayit —to tell you how unutterably dear you are to me—has been my consuming passion since first we met. Often, often, when attending your aunt, a craving to speak to you—to lay bare my heart—to take you in my arms—-"
He moved towards her, and she shrank back affrightedly. After all, a girl's best courage does not amount to much.
"What!" said he, "do you think I would touch you? No, no!"
"You must be mad," said she. She was trembling now. "How can you talk to me like this?—to me, who—-"
"Well?" said he—his voice was a question—"well?"
"Why go into it?" said the girl gently, touched by the horrible anguish in his face. "Is it not enough for you to—-"
"To what?"—violently, as she hesitated to finish her sentence.
"Your words are enigmas; I would hear from your own lips the answers to them."
"As you insist," said Agatha calmly, "I shall finish it. To you, who"—slowly, defiantly—"areabhorrent to me!"
"You think to marry that young fool!" said he. "And I tell you you never shall. I shall not allow it. Your aunt will not allow it."
"Mrs. Greatorex is not my aunt," said Agatha. "But am I to understand, then, that you are going to bringherinto this hateful matter?"
"I shall certainly tell her how things are," returned he doggedly.
"You would coerce me—you would compel me to accept you!" cried she miserably, a vision of Mrs. Greatorex's anger rising before her.
"I compel you in no wise! I would only have careful consideration where your best interests are concerned. I can supply you with all that makes life bearable. I can surround you with luxuries— and Dillwyn, what can he do?"
"I don't want him to do anything," said Agatha slowly. She said nothing more for a moment and the meaning of her words sank into Darkham's heart. No, Dillwyn need do nothing. She loved him— love was sufficient! What more was wanting? Agatha's voice broke through his wretched thoughts. "I do not understand your allusions to Dr. Dillwyn. He is merely a friend, an acquaintance of mine. No more."
"No more!" He mimicked her tone, and burst into queer laughter.
"Would you swear to that? Ay! I suppose—and die for it—just because he has not said to you what I have said to-day. But you will never marry him. Mark that! You will marry me!"
"You mean that you will make Mrs. Greatorex my enemy abut this," said the girl scornfully. "You will turn her against me."
"As for that," said he, "you are not the down-trodden slave you would describe. The law of to-day"—bitterly—"leaves most people very free. You are thoroughly protected."
"So far, yes; but you also know that my only home is with Mrs. Greatorex. If she were to turn against me—-"
"Then I should take you in."
"Never!" said she strongly. "I would rather die on the roadside than have anything to do with you!"
"You think that now, but time changes most things, and poverty is hard to bear. You will listen to your aunt at last; and I—I who have loved you—I who have looked forward to such an hour as this—have looked to you as my salvation—-"
"Dr. Darkham!"—she turned upon him passionately—"do not look at me at all. It is useless, believe me. Nothing under heaven could change my determination on this point. I have told you I would rather die than marry you. Look elsewhere and forget me, I entreat you."
She turned away from him and glanced once more up the road. Would henevercome?
"Not in sight yet?" said Darkham, with a contemptuous laugh. "To keep you waiting so! What a dilatory lover!"
"I wish you would go away," said she quietly.
"That you may see him alone? A most reasonable request." He laughed again harshly, with forced merriment; then suddenly he fell on his knees before her, and caught hold of her gown.
"Agatha, for the sake of the heaven I have lost, hear me! Youmusthear me! See—I am at you very feet! Give me a word—a word—onlyone!Just one word of hope. Oh, my soul, if you only knew how I feel towards you—what I havedonefor you! Agatha, have pity!" He seemed hardly to know what he was saying. He caught the hem of her gown, and pressed it to his lips. The girl, distressed, horrified, laid her hand upon his head to press it back, away from her. To him the pressure of that soft, hasty hand seemed like a benediction.
He rose slowly, staggering a little, and looked up at her; she had moved away towards an opening in the hedge that led to the road, and was holding up her hand as if to attract somebody. Her face was white, terrified; even in this strange moment he felt a sensation of gladness in the thought that he could move her some way, even to fear.
In another minute Dillwyn had sprung over the stile and was beside her. He looked quietly from her to Darkham.
"I saw you," said the girl, laughing a little hurriedly. "And this was your nearest way back, you know, and—-"
"And as I am due to see a patient now," said Dr. Darkham, drawing out his watch and examining it closely, "I am glad you have come in time to see Miss Nesbitt back to the grounds."
"Why don't you like him?"
It was the next morning, and Mrs. Greatorex, lounging on a sofa in her bedroom, was regarding Agatha with a rather stern air.
Dr. Darkham, true to the promise he had made to himself, had gone to Rickton Villa the previous night, had sought a private interview with her, and told her all: of his admiration for her niece, of his fear of losing her unless he spoke at once, of his belief that Dillwyn was in love with her also, and of the settlements he was prepared to make.
These last were very handsome. For the past twenty years of his successful life, he had saved far more than he had spent— refusing to go much into society or to entertain, because of his wife's deficiencies, though by his marriage with that wife he had been made a rich man. There had been no settlements on his marriage with her, and all her fortune was now within his grasp. It was with that, indeed, he intended to buy Agatha.
Mrs. Greatorex's ambitious heart rose to the bait. The sum he proposed to settle on Agatha was considerably more than she had even hoped for, and during the past week or two she had been led by Darkham to understand that he loved her "niece," as she always called Agatha.
Darkham, watching her, half smiled to himself—she was so easily read, and so sordid, and so mean, with all her absurd aristocratic airs and hints at the greatness of her family that did not know her.
He went on carefully. He fought his way with ease. He even ventured to tell her in a subdued whisper that he had never really cared for his first wife—it was a boyish infatuation, and she was older than he was—and—well, the same old vulgar story that we all know by heart and despise and don't believe in.
Mrs. Greatorex chose to believe it, however. At the last she gave him to understand that she would urge her niece by every means in her power to accept his offer. Her refusal of him that afternoon was probably mere girlish embarrassment, she said. As for that suggestion about Dr. Dillwyn, she was quite positive there was nothing in it.
She was looking now at the "dearest girl"—who was looking back at with anxious eyes. She did not appear "shy," however—only very anxious and unhappy.
She did not answer, so Mrs. Greatorex went on,—-
"He told me he had spoken to you yesterday, and that you had refused him. You must have been out of your senses when you did that. He is prepared to make splendid settlements—-"
"I shouldn't object to settlements if—if I didn't object to— him," said Agatha in a low voice.
"To him! To Dr. Darkham? What can you see to object to in him? He is handsome—clever—-"
"He is old," said Agatha, trifling with the question as if to gain time.
"Thatis the last epithet to apply to him. My dear Agatha, consider. He is clever, as I say, and learned, and so kind and thoughtful. I'm sure his goodness to me during my illness—- Now, what further objection can you make?"
"I can't bear him," said Agatha, suddenly, which, indeed, was the conclusion of the whole matter.
"My dear! At your age! Ibeg,Agatha, that you will cease to consider yourself a baby. Such a speech as that, if youwerea baby, might pass muster, but for a girl who has seen her twentieth year it sounds simply foolish. Why, when I was your age I had had six proposals. And you—have you had a single proposal, save this most fortunate one?"
She paused. Agatha did not answer. Meantime, Mrs. Greatorex waited relentlessly.
"Well?" she said.
"No." The answer was very faint, and it awoke in Mrs. Greatorex's mind a suspicion. Was the girl deceiving her? Was there an actual engagement between her and Dr. Dillwyn?
"No? Are you sure, Agatha? It seemed to me that you hesitated. I hope there is nothing in a certain absurd report I have heard about you and Dr. Dillwyn."
"There is nothing to say," said she in a low, anguished voice. Oh, that therehadbeen!
"I am at liberty, then," said her tormentor, "to tell Dr. Darkham that you are absolutelyfree—that you care for nobody—- that your heart is still your own to dispose of? I may tell him that you have never felt so much as a passing fancy for this young man, Dr. Dillwyn, who has been sent here through a whim of Reginald Greatorex—to starve, as far as I can see; for Dr. Darkham, as you know, has all the paying practice, and Reginald Greatorex"—bitterly—"as you also know, is a false friend, and a man that would rather die than part with a penny. I may tell Dr. Darkham that?"
Agatha, pale as death, lifted up her eyes and looked at her.
"Not that," she said; "do not tell him that. I—-" she grew whiter and whiter, but she was true to herself and her own heart to the last—"I love Dr. Dillwyn."
"Agatha!" Mrs. Greatorex rose, and stood before her, filled with wrathful horror. To tell the truth, she was genuinely shocked. Her narrow prejudices could not conceive such a thing as this.
"When he has never spoken to you—never—-"
"I know. It is—itsoundsdreadful," said the girl wildly.
"But"—folding her hands upon her breast—"he will speak. Hewill."
There was silence.
"I trust not. I believe not," said Mrs. Greatorex at last. Here tone was cold, and there was a certain element of disgust in it that hurt the girl to her very soul. Why—whyhad she spoken? And yet to deny him! She would suffer for it, but hers was the nobler part, and in the end she would be placed above shame. But if heneverspoke! A cold wind seemed to creep over her, chilling her through and through. It was her one doubt of him, and it died at birth, but she always repented herself for it. "In the meantime, Agatha, you must permit me to say that I am horrified beyond words at your confession."
"I shall never marry Dr. Darkham," said the girl slowly, miserably, but with great courage. "Let me leave you, Aunt Hilda. Let me go out in the world as a governess. I could make my own way, perhaps—and—-"
"Don't talk to me like that, Agatha. You—my niece! Do you think I am going to have you spoken of by the people here as apaid person?No, you shall stay here." She rose to her feet and pointed imperiously to the door. "You shall stay here and marry Dr. Darkham, and thank God for your good fortune. Now go; leave me." She pointed again to the door, and Agatha, sad and sick at heart, went out of the room.
When she was gone, Mrs. Greatorex tried to rest again upon her lounge, but failed. That slip of a girl to refuse such an offer as this! A girl who was literally penniless! She stormed and raged as she walked up and down her small room. As a fact, she had grown honestly fond of Agatha—as fond as she could be of anything outside herself; but she was fonder still of her ambition—and to see Agatha married to a man without position or money....
Agatha went slowly downstairs, and ate no breakfast. She went into the garden after breakfast, and tried to do wonders with a small bed of asters; but her heart was in nothing, and when she came indoors about half-past one and changed her morning frock, and made herself very pretty for luncheon, it was with a shrinking heart, as she thought of meeting Aunt Hilda again.
But Aunt Hilda refused to appear—which perhaps frightened Agatha more than all that had gone before. For Mrs. Greatorex to miss her luncheon meant that she was really offended. Agatha got through the sad little meal as quickly as possible, and then, snatching her hat from the stand, told herself she would go for a long, long afternoon upon the bank of the river. The Rickton river was about half a mile from the town, and there were charming little bits about it, good enough to satisfy the souls of most.
As she reached the hall door, however, the maid threw it open, and the Rev. Thomas Blount stepped in. Agatha could have hated almost anybody else for his intrusion at this moment, but Blount, somehow, always had a kindly boyish air about him that put an end to criticism.
"Oh, you, Mr. Blount!" said she, as if greatly pleased, and she took him into the small drawing-room, and sat down to entertain him right royally. Poor thing! With her heart as heavy as lead.
She was delightful to him for five minutes, and then she felt the strain was very great. It suddenly occurred to her that there were some engravings hung in the little antechamber, where she had so often—she shuddered now at the remembrance of it—so often had to standtête à têtewith Dr. Darkham whilst he gave her instructions about her aunt's treatment.
Would Mr. Blount like to see these old prints? She had heard they were valuable. Mr. Blount said he would like to see them very much, and she led him into the little chamber. He and she were standing on the threshold of it, however, when the opening of the drawing-room door beyond caught Agatha's ear.
"Some visitors, I am afraid, Mr. Blount," she said gently.
"Forgive me for a moment. You can see the pictures there"— pointing to them—"for yourself."
"Pray don't think of me," said Blount. "I shall give my whole attention to these."
But did he? Agatha had gone back to the drawing-room to find Elfrida rushing towards her.
"Isn't it beautiful?" cried that small person, precipitating herself upon Agatha's neck. "Isn't it all it ought to be?" She surrendered Agatha's neck here, and stood back from her, looking at her in, evidently, brilliant spirits, and the latest Parisian gown. "I'm going to be a bona-fide countess! A real live one, too. You may put anything you like on that. Lively shall be the word for me. If he thinks he's going to keep me down, and—Oh, Mr. Blount! You here!"
Blount did not answer her; words, indeed, were beyond him. So it was all over!
"I think I'll come and see your engravings some other day, Miss Nesbitt," said he, as calmly as possible, though it went to Agatha's heart to see the expression in his kind young eyes. "You and Miss Firs-Robinson must have a good deal to say to each other."
He turned to Elfrida. "You see I heard," said he gravely.
"Yes." Elfrida held out her hand to him in farewell. Agatha had not made even an attempt at detaining him, the situation seemed so full of briers. "And won't you—-"
"No, I do not congratulate you," said he steadily.
When he had gone, Agatha said quickly, "It is not true!"
"It is, indeed. He proposed to me yesterday just before he left, and I accepted him."
Agatha turned away from her.
"I thought better of you," she said.
"Now, that is always what puzzles me," said Elfrida, not in the least offended by Agatha's ungracious reception of her news, but with the air of one prepared to argue the question calmly, even to the death. "Why should people always think better of me? I don't see how Icanbe better. What's the matter with me?"
Agatha looked at her sadly. Her own dull, miserable story was before her.
How could a girl willingly sell herself for title, or money, or position, or anything? And Elfrida, who was rich, who could defy the world,sheto sell herself to that detestable man, for the sake of hearing herself called Lady Ambert! In her present mood it seemed hateful—unnatural—to Agatha. Oh, how gladly would shegiveherself for love—love only!
"There is nothing the matter with you," said she—- "nothing. I won't believe there is. I won't believe, either, that you will marry Lord Ambert."
"I expect I shall, however. And why not? Auntie is quite delighted about it. Just fancy, she will be Ambert's 'auntie' very shortly!"
"Your aunt is naturally ambitious for you," Agatha said; "but you —you—-"
"Well, I—- I"—mimicking her gaily—"what of me? Do you think I can't see the glitter of diamonds as well as any one else?— and I hear the Ambert diamonds are beyond praise."
"What are diamonds to you, who have so much money? Why, you could buy them for yourself."
"Well, that's what I'm doing. Iambuying them. Now, don't tell me I am not following your advice, after all." She spoke mockingly.
"If you took my advice, you would see very little glitter in Lord Ambert's diamonds."
"See here!" said Elfrida steadily; "it's no use your taking it like that. I know exactly how you feel about it, but, then, I am not you."
"But surely your father never intended—-"
"Yes, he did; and I admire him for it. He said to himself, "What is the good of my girl having all that money if she doesn't gain something by it?" Remember how hard my grandfather had worked for it, and they had their ambition, you see—it was to make me a lady! I'm afraid they've failed there," said Elfrida, with a sudden laugh. "But, at all events, I shall be a lady in another sense. I shall be Lady Ambert!"
"I don't know how you can look at it like that. The throwing away of your whole life's happiness—-"
"Don't you? Ah! but you see, you have not been educated as I was. Why, only look at the name! They evidently gave it to me at my baptism with a view of my living up to it. Elfrida! quite early English! It speaks of centuries of dead and gone ancestors of illustrious origin, who, I hope, didn't sell soap."
"I don't believe you care," said Agatha reproachfully, who, however, was now laughing in spite of herself. "To make a jest of everything as you do—-"
"Argues that I have no heart; and a good thing, too. Auntie sometimes calls me Frid, an extra petting of my pet name Frida. But really it should be Friv. I don't seem to care about anything, and I seldom think. I don't allow myself. It brings wrinkles—as I read the other day in one of those ladies' papers. Well, I must be going. You are the first person I have told of my engagement, but you needn't flatter yourself you are the only person who knows it by this."
"Your aunt will, I suppose, publish it abroad!" said Agatha sadly.
"No. Lord Ambert will. He seemed very flatteringly anxious to clinch the nail. I expect he has more debts than he knows what to do with."
"But, Frida"—anxiously—"I hope you will take care that he does not make away with all your money."
"You bet!" said Elfrida, who really, perhaps, ought to have been behind that counter; "that'sall right. I shall help him to clear the mortgages, of course, by degrees, but without touching a penny of my principal."
She seemed "all there."
"Oh, there's one thing," said she, trifling with the handle of the door: "I am sorry I told you of my engagement before Mr. Blount."
"Iam not," said Agatha bluntly, a little sternly indeed. "I am glad he knows. You would never have told him until the last moment if you had had your own way." If she had thought to overwhelm Elfrida by this harsh judgement, or reduce her to a sense of shame, she found herself mistaken.
"You're a witch!" said that naughty little person, with a gay grimace. "I think I seldom met so nice a—a friend as Mr. Blount. What a pity I must lose him now!"
"You have Lord Ambert instead," said Agatha coldly. In her heart she loved Elfrida, but she was angry with her now.
"Ah, true, true!" cried the culprit gaily. She ran down the steps to where her ponies were waiting for her. Agatha, though angry, followed her. It hurt her to be offended with the pretty charming, lovable little creature, who was so wilfully making hay of her life; she even went down the steps and, without looking at Elfrida tucked the light rug round her.
Elfrida smiled, picked up the reins, and took the whip out of it socket. The ponies sprang forward. Suddenly she checked them.
"Agatha!" she called. Agatha looked up. "After all, I was wrong.... Ihavea heart.... if only foryou!"
The little fair, merry face was pale now, and tears lay heavily within her blue eyes. Agatha, startled, gazed at her, but there was no time for more. The ponies where trotting up the tiny avenue, and Elfrida did not look back.
On each side of her rose banks, filled with glorious colourings. Autumn, always so rich in variety, was painting everything with a lavish hand—all the tints were gorgeous, splendid, ripe. She stopped for a moment to gather some berries from the blackberry bushes, that were now laden with ebony fruit, and whose luscious darkness was well thrown out by the pale green clumps of the hart's-tongue ferns that grew beneath them.
Presently she turned the corner and came within sight of the river. It was running very swiftly to-day, being swollen by all the rain that fell last night; and leaves from the trees, yellow and red and green, were swirling down it, in the rays of a mad, hot sun.
She found her own nook at last, and sat down beneath a huge beech-tree, through the branches of which the light played merrily. She flung off her hat, as though glad to feel the air upon her forehead. One could hardly believe summer was gone and autumn well advanced. Far away in the wood on the other side the solitary figure of an old woman picking sticks, with a scarlet kerchief bound around her head, made a spot in the picture.
Agatha sat down and let her head fall into her hands. She knew now—now that she was at last alone—how badly she had been wanting to cry all these long,longhours. The tears ran down her cheeks and through her clasped fingers. She was so alone— so utterly alone!
A gentle hand was laid upon her shoulder. She started violently and looked up, to find Dillwyn looking down at her.
"What is it?" asked he softly.
"Oh, nothing—nothing!" cried she hurriedly. "Nothing, really." She rose quickly to her feet and tried to smile.
"Tellme," said he.
"Well, I have told you," said she, trying to be brave. "It is nothing. Only—sometimes—-" She broke down ignominiously, and covered her face with her hands. "Oh, I am unhappy—unhappy!" she said bitterly.
"My darling!" said the young man. He did not try to take her hands from her face, but he drew her to him, and encircled her with his arms, and pressed her head down on his shoulder, with silent but fervent passion. He held her to him. "Agatha, you know I love you. I told myself I would not speak until I was sure that you loved me, and until I had something to offer you; but now, seeing you like this—if I can help you—-" He stopped and pressed his lips to her head. "Youdolove me, Agatha?"
Agatha raised herself, and, laying both her hands upon his breast, looked at him. Two tears still lay upon her cheeks, but she was not crying any more. Her face was transfigured—a most heavenly light was in her eyes. Dillwyn looked back at her, wondering—he had not know she was so beautiful. He caught her to him.
"Is it true," said he. "You really love me?"
"And you?"
"What a question! It doesn't deserve an answer. But you shall have it. Yes, I love you with all my heart and soul."
"Ah!" said Agatha. A cloud crept over her face. She looked at him.
"Whydidn't you tell me so before?" she said.
He questioned her, and then all the truth came out—Dr. Darkham's proposal, her aunt's acquiescence in it, her horror and fear. Her hand was in his as she told him, and the nervous little fingers tightened on his in the telling. It was such a hateful story, and she had suffered so. But now—-
"The infernal scoundrel!" said Dillwyn at last. She was only half through her story then. "Why, his wife isn't three months dead." After that he heard her patiently to the end.
"I have been so frightened, so miserable," said Agatha. Something of the effect of this speech would have been taken away if a mere outsider had been addressed, as now there was not a touch of misery about her anywhere, but Dillwyn understood her, and drawing her hand to his lips, kissed it warmly.
"You shall never be miserable again if I can help it," said he.
"After all, Agatha, I haven't told you about the stroke of luck that has fallen to me to-day. I'm afraid I should hardly have had the pluck to speak to you at all if it hadn't been for that."
"Oh, Jack!" said she reproachfully.
"Well, I wasn't sure how it was. I could see your aunt was against me, and I don't blame her of course, and—-."
"Then I think you ought. Fancy her wanting to marry me to Dr. Darkham!"
"A man like that! Well, that's bad, certainly."
"Yet you say you cannot blame her."
"How could I blame her? Do you imagine that any aunt would like to marry a girl like you to me?"
"I should; any aunt would be glad to marryanygirl to a man like you."
This was delightful from all points, and a good deal of business was done on the head of it.
"But look here," said Dillwyn presently; "I haven't told you about the luck. Old General Montgomery has called me in."
"No!"
"Yes, last night. Attack of the gout. It appears they had known my mother, and had heard that I was enormously clever. I was sorry for himthen,poor old man!"
"Nonsense. He heard the truth."
"And it appears he was dissatisfied with Darkham who was with him a week ago. There was evidently something queer about his last visit. The General wouldn't say much—he's a touchy old fellow, you know; but plainly he was offended. Of course, I shall patch it up with him and Darkham. I hate other people's shoes, but for all that it will give me a rise in the neighbourhood—the fact of having been called in, I mean."
Women are seldom magnanimous where a lover is concerned. Agatha now raised a quick protest.
"Why should you do that? If he doesn't like Dr. Darkham—and who could?—why should not you take his place?"
"It is only a momentary row, I expect. Darkham has been his doctor for a long time. But what I want you to know is that it will probably give me a fillip here; and"—he drew her to him —"that will enable me to make a home for you the sooner."
"A home!" said she. The very word was music.
"Ourhome!" He looked at her and she at him, and their lips met. "For how long have I desired this hour!" said he. "For years!"
"Weeks—only weeks. But—-"
"Verylongweeks."
At this they both laughed, and then he went on a little shamefacedly, perhaps—true lovers are always a little shamed at heart before their loved ones,—
"Will you marry me, now, as I am, Agatha? Will you take the risk?"
"What risk?" said she delightfully. "I won't let you talk of risks."
"It's a cottage," said Dillwyn—"a mere cottage."
"I love cottages," said she.
"There are only five rooms altogether."
"What can one want with more?"
"And I'm afraid the kitchen chimney smokes."
"All kitchen chimneys smoke."
"And I don't believe that girl can cook a bit."
"Then here's a girl who can teach her!" She laid her hands lightly on her bosom.
But they didn't stay very long there. Now Dillwyn had her in his arms.
"Do you mean that you are not afraid—that you will come to me —that you are mine really—really?"
Suddenly he put her from him.
"Look here, it's a shame!" said he. "You are sacrificing your life. You had better give me up!" He caught hold of her hands, however, as he said that, and drew her to him and held her fast.
"You had indeed. But if you do, Agatha, there's an end of me."
"Oh, Jack!" said she. She was laughing, but the tears were in her eyes. Quickly she released her hands from his, and then threw them round his neck. "Ishan't make an end of you," she said.
....
"Well, that's settled, I suppose," said he. "But I shall always feel I have been selfish towards you. But, however, it's done now. And, Agatha, I wish you could see the house. It's a cottage, you know."
"I know. I've seen it."
"Only the outside. But inside it isn't half bad, and there are two of the rooms very pretty, and it is covered all over with ivy. Mr. Greatorex was very good to me on my coming here, so some of the rooms are decent enough, but"—shyly and tenderly— "hardly good enough for you."
"For me!" Agatha grew softly pink. "It would be heaven!" said she in a low tone. That he should think otherwise, that he should imagine she would not be happy with himanywhere!Was there ever such sweet folly?
"There is quite a nice little room on the south side," Dillwyn was saying, Agatha's cheek pressed against his—"a very pretty room. That would be your drawing-room, and the one opposite, that would be the dining-room. It is very small, certainly; in fact, the word 'dining-room' seems too grand for it."
Here Agatha sighed heavily.
"What is it, darling?" asked he anxiously. "You don't like the prospect? Certainly it is small."
"I'll tell you what it is," said she, looking at him seriously: "it is too good to be true—allof it. It will never be mine. That drawing-room, that dining-room, that whole lovely cottage, will never be mine. It would be too much happiness. You forget Aunt Hilda. She will never give her consent—never!"
"But she is not your aunt really," said he.
"No; but she—Jack, she has been very good to me. But for her" —she paused, and her charming face grew sad—"I might have starved. I cannot forget that."
"I shall not forget it either," said Dillwyn. "And if she ever wants a friend, I'm there. But for all that, Agatha, I've got to think of you too. You are mine now, you know; and one should think first of those that belong to him. And, after all, I expect Mrs. Greatorex is open to reason. Once she knows you hate Darkham, and that you love me—and you do, darling, don't you?"
"Jack! as if you weren't sure—-"
"Well, I am now; and I'll come up to-morrow and tell your aunt all about it."
"Oh, don't!" cried Agatha. "It will be no use—none at all. She —she is bent on this marriage with Dr. Darkham. Don't say a word for awhile."
"And let you be tortured meanwhile? Not likely!" said Dillwyn. "I shall certainly speak to her to-morrow. We must make the way clear at once. I shall come up at four. I can't come earlier because of General Montgomery; but at four."
"You won't see her," said Agatha, with a touch of triumph. "She is going over to the Monteiths' after luncheon to spend a long and happy day with them, and won't be back until ten. I'm glad, do you know. I'm afraid of your speaking to her. I dread it. She will be so annoyed."
"Better get it over," said he. "But even if I can't see Mrs. Greatorex to-morrow, Imustsee you. She will be away, you say. I can come and see you for all that, can't I?"
"Yes, come at seven. I am afraid I cannot ask you in, however. She would be so angry. But if you will come to the garden—-" She coloured painfully and looked distressed. "I can't even give you coffee.... I can do nothing for you," said she, the tears rising in her eyes.
He smiled. "You can!" said he. "Do you know you haven't kissed me once of your own accord?" He drew her towards him, and she lifted her face.
"Agatha!" said he, in a low tone, "I wonder if you know how I love you?"
"Oh, I know more than that," said she, with a little happy, shy laugh. "I know how I love you!"