CHAPTER LVII.
‘My lady is so fair and dearThat all my heart to her is given;One word she whispered in my ear,And earth for me was changed to heaven.’
‘My lady is so fair and dearThat all my heart to her is given;One word she whispered in my ear,And earth for me was changed to heaven.’
‘My lady is so fair and dearThat all my heart to her is given;One word she whispered in my ear,And earth for me was changed to heaven.’
‘My lady is so fair and dear
That all my heart to her is given;
One word she whispered in my ear,
And earth for me was changed to heaven.’
He has held one of her hands all the time, but now she releases it. She has recovered herself marvellously, but there is still a good deal of nervousness in the laugh that breaks from her as she seats herself in the old rustic seat in the corner.
‘Well—what?’ She is evidently prepared to carry it off boldly.
‘You don’t mean to tell me there was no reason for that look in your eyes just now?’
There is a very obstinate look in his own eyes just now, at all events.
‘What look?’
‘Susan,’ says Crosby, with a solemn shake of his head, ‘you might as well give it up at once. You were never made for this sort of thing. You wouldn’t take in a new-born infant. Come, get it off your mind. Make your confession. What has the immaculate James been doing?’
‘James!’ She tries to look surprised, but breaks down ignominiously. ‘Oh, nothing’—hurriedly—‘nothing.... Nothing at all, really! Only—he’s so stupid!’
‘He’s been stupid very often of late, hasn’t he? Look here’—severely—‘you are suppressing something; either you or he (and you for choice, I should say, judging by the obvious guilt upon your countenance) have been doing something of which you are thoroughly ashamed. Even such small signs of grace are to be welcomed, but in the meantime I think a fuller confession would make for the good of your soul. Come, what have you been doing?’
‘It was James a moment ago,’ says she slowly.
‘Was it?’—quickly—‘I thought as much. But what was he doing a moment ago?’
‘Nonsense’—flushing hotly—‘you know what I mean—that it was James you were accusing a moment ago.’
‘True! And it should have been you. I am in fault this time, then. That makes a third.’
‘No, indeed, because I am not in fault at all.’
‘Then it was the immaculate one! What of him? Has he been at his old game again: chasing you round the garden to——’
‘Mr. Crosby!’ There is indignant protest in her tone, but the rich colour that rises to her cheek tells him that his guess has been at least partly accurate.
‘Not that,’ says he. ‘Foolish James!’ Even as he says these idle words he is cursing James up hill and down dale for the abominable impertinence of him. No little shred of allowance for James’ honest love for this pretty maiden enters into his heart.
‘Well—go on! That is only a negative statement—if it is a statement at all.’
‘There is nothing to tell. And’—she pauses—‘and, any way, I won’t tell it,’ says she.
Crosby suppresses a desire to laugh. Oh, how sweet—how sweet his little darling is!
‘Not even to me—your guide, philosopher, and friend? Susan’—he is looking into her eyes as if compelling an answer—‘he proposed to you again, didn’t he?’
‘Oh yes,’ says Susan, as if throwing a load off her mind; ‘and when I told him again that I couldn’t and wouldn’t—he—he was horrid. And he wanted——’ She stops.
‘Yes’—Crosby’s voice is sharp now—‘but you didn’t——’
‘No, no! But I hate him!’
‘So do I, with all my soul,’ says Crosby, more to himself, however, than for her hearing. He stands looking on the ground for a bit, and then:
‘So you have refused the gunner. Poor James! You don’t really care for him, then?’
‘I thought all the world knew that,’ says Susan. ‘Why’—with almost pathetic contempt—‘can’the know it? It is unkind of him, isn’t it, to make me so unkind? But I can’t love him—I can’t!’ A little sigh escapes her.
The rose on the straggling bush above her is not sweeter or more beautiful than Susan is now, with her pretty bent head and her flower-like face, and all the delicate beauty of her soul shining through her earnest eyes.
A strange nervousness seizes on Crosby. He takes a step towards her, however, and takes both her hands in his strong clasp.
‘Susan, am I too old?’ says he.
Susan turns her startled eyes upon him, grows crimson, and then deadly white. She pulls her hands out of his and turns away, but too late—too late to hide the rapture in her eyes, that the heavy tears in vain are trying to drown.
‘Susan, my darling! my own sweet little girl! Susan’—his arms are round her now—‘is it true? So you do care for me! For me—such an old fellow next to you—you’—clasping her to him and laughing—‘are onlya baby, you know. But my baby now, eh? Oh, Susan, is it true?’
Susan tightens her hand upon his arm, but answer makes she none.
‘Afterwards you may be sorry; thirty-four and nineteen—a great many milestones between us, you see.’
‘Ah, it is you who will be sorry!’ says Susan, lifting her head a minute from the safe shelter of his breast to look at him. It is a lovely look. Poor James! if he had only seen it!
‘Are you going to lead me such a life as that?’ says Crosby, laughing. ‘I don’t believe it.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I don’t, indeed. I don’t even know if you love me yet.’
‘Oh, as for that——’ Suddenly she laughs, too, and with the sweetest tenderness slips one arm round his neck and draws his head down to hers. ‘And, besides, I’m very nearly twenty,’ says she.
‘Look here,’ says Crosby presently; ‘toomuch happiness is bad for any man. Now, you sit over there’—putting her into a far corner of the old garden-seat—‘and I’ll sit here’—seating himself with the sternest virtue at the other end. ‘Don’t come within a mile of me again for a while, and let us be sensible and talk business. When will you marry me—next week?’
‘Next week?’—with a laugh—‘is that talking business?’
‘The best business.’
‘Oh, nonsense!’
‘Where does the nonsense come in? I’ve been waiting all my life for you, and what’s the good of waiting any longer—even a day? See here, now, Susan. In seven days you could——’
‘I could not, indeed!’ She breaks off suddenly. ‘You are coming nearer.’
‘So I am,’ says he, sighing, and moving back to his corner. ‘Good Susan! Keep reminding me, will you?’
‘I certainly shall,’ says Susan, who has perhaps been only half understood up to this.
‘Well, if not next week—next month?’
‘Oh no,’ says Susan. ‘In a year perhaps I——’
‘How dare you make such a proposition! Come now, Susan, you have heard the old adage beginning, “Life is short.”’
‘Yes, but I don’t believe it. And besides—no; don’t stir. And besides—you are coming nearer.’
‘It is all your fault if I am. You are behaving so disgracefully. The idea of your mentioning a year. I shall appeal to your father.’
‘I am certain he won’t hear of it at all. He—oh, there, you are coming closer again.’
‘Susan,’ says Crosby sternly, ‘enough of this. I’ll stand no more of it. You shan’t keep me at arm’s length any longer.’
‘I? What had I to do with it?’ says Susan, arching her charming brows.
After which it takes only a moment to have the arm in question round her again, and to have her drawn into it—a most willing captive.
‘Do you remember when you made me promise I would never steal anything again?’ asks Crosby, after an eloquent pause.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I have broken that promise.’
‘You haven’t, I hope.’
‘I have, though. I’—with disgraceful triumph—‘have stolen your heart.’
‘Not a bit of it,’ cries Susan, with a triumph that puts his to shame; ‘I gave it to you. Deny that if you dare.’
He evidently doesn’t dare. He does something else, however, that is quite as effective.
‘Well, it’s a month, any way, isn’t it?’ says he. ‘In a month we’ll get married, and we’ll go away—away, all by ourselves, Susan—just you and I, to the heavenly places of the earth. You shall see the world, and the world shall see you—the loveliest thing that is in it.’
‘You mean that we shall go abroad?’ says Susan. ‘To Rome, perhaps?’
‘To Rome or any other spot your fancy dictates, so long as you take me with you.’He draws her to him as he says this, and—‘Susan, will you answer me one word?’
Susan’s clear, truthful eyes fasten upon his.
‘What is it?’ asks she softly.
‘Am I the one man in all the world you would see the world with?’
The clear truthful eyes do not falter.
‘Why do you ask me that?’ says she. ‘Surely you know it.’
‘Where is your father?’ asks he presently. ‘Let us go and tell him.’
‘Tell father?’ Her tone has an ominous trembling in it.
‘Why, of course,’ says Crosby, regarding her with some surprise. It must be forgiven him if he thinks Mr. Barry will be decidedly glad to hear the news.
‘Oh, I couldn’t,’ says Susan, growing quite pale. ‘He’ll be very angry with me. He will keep on thinking of me as a child, you know, and I can’t get him out of it. When I put on long frocks last year, I thought he’d see it then, but he didn’t; and even thedoing up of my hair wasn’t of the slightest use.’
‘We might give him a third lesson,’ says Crosby. ‘Come on, and let us get it over.’
‘You’—Susan draws back, and her tone now is distinctly fearful—‘You couldn’t go without me, could you? By yourself, I mean.’
‘I could, of course,’ says he. ‘But——’
‘Oh, then, do,’ cries Susan, giving him a little push—there are unmistakable signs of cowardice about her. And all at once to Crosby comes the thought, how pure at heart all these people are—how ‘far from the madding crowd’ of self-seekers! She has not realized that he is what most of his town acquaintances call a ‘good match.’ She is even afraid to announce her engagement to her father, lest he should think her too young to marry. It sounds incredible, but a glance at Susan, and a vision of the sad man sitting alone with his new sorrow and disappointment in his little study beyond, dissolves all suspicions.
‘Yes—do go,’ says Susan. ‘To tell you the truth, father is in rather a disturbed state of mind just now, and I’m afraid he won’t receive you very well. He may be grumpy. He is unhappy. He has lost a great deal of money lately.’
‘A great deal?’
‘A very great deal. Four hundred pounds!’ Susan looks tragic. ‘And it had been set aside to put Carew into the army, so of course he feels it. The bank failed, you see.’
‘Banks will do these rude things at times,’ says Crosby. ‘But what I fail to see is, why you can’t come with me, and get your blessing on the spot.’
‘Why, I’ve told you’—reproachfully. ‘Father is in a bad temper, and he——’ She pauses. ‘Oh, I can’t go,’ says she. ‘But you can.’
‘Alone! After the awful picture you have just drawn of your father’s wrath! Have you no regard for my life, Susan? Is this your vaunted love for me?—to abandon meremorselessly to the foe. Is it safe, do you think? Suppose I never come back?’
‘Tut!’ says Susan. ‘There—go on! But be sure you say it isn’t my fault.’
‘That makes an end of it,’ says Crosby. ‘Your fault. Whose fault is it, if it isn’t yours? Susan, I refuse to stir a step without you. I feel it is your distinct duty to be there, if only to see fair play and be a witness at the inquest afterwards. Besides, I should like you to gather up my remains; you might give a helping hand so far. Seriously, darling’—drawing her to him—‘I think it would be wise of you to come with me. He would understand so much better if—if only you will look at me as you are looking now.’
‘Well, I’ll come,’ says Susan, sighing dejectedly, but with another look that makes his heart sing aloud for joy.
‘That’s a darling Susan! But now, before we go, I must put you through a strict cross-examination. To begin with—you are positive you love me?’
‘Positive.’ Susan, laughing, lays her hands against his shoulders, pressing him back.
‘That doesn’t look like it!’
‘It’s true, though!’—laughing.
‘And it isn’t out of pity?’
‘I’ll certainly have to pity you soon. Are you going out of your mind?’
‘No wonder if I were.’ He swiftly undoes that unkind touch upon his shoulders, and takes her in his arms and kisses her.
‘I don’t think that is cross-examination,’ says she reproachfully. No doubt later on she will be capable of developing a little wit of her own.
‘You are right. To continue, then: how much do you love me?’
‘Better’—Susan’s eyes, now sweeter than ever, raise themselves to his for one shy moment—‘than anyone.’
‘That is vague, Susan. Give it a voice. Better than—Bonnie? Oh no!’—quickly—‘I shouldn’t have asked that. Don’t answer it, my sweetheart,’ pressing her head againsthis breast. ‘We’ll take another. You love me better than you thought you would ever love anyone—tell me that, any way.’
‘Oh, much, much more,’ says she. She clings to him for a moment, then steps back, and a little air of meditation grows on her. ‘Do you know,’ says she in a low, rather ashamed tone, ‘about this very thing I have lately been very much surprised at myself.’
It is irresistible. Crosby bursts out laughing—such happy laughter!
‘What are you laughing at?’ asks Susan, a little nervously.
‘At you.’
‘At me?’
‘Yes; because you are just the sweetest angel, Susan. What sort of rings do you like best?’
Susan is silent for a moment, and now through all the rose-white of her skin a warm flush rises.
‘You are going to give me a ring?’ says she. ‘Do you know, I hadn’t thought of that. A ring! I have never had a ring!’
He draws her head softly down upon his breast.
‘Your first will be a sacred one, then. It will be our engagement-ring, my darling!’
‘I should like a blue ring,’ says Susan shyly, after a little while.
‘Like your own eyes. Sapphire, then? So be it. It will do for a first one. But you must have a keeper for it, Susan, and you must leave that to me.’ He is silent a moment. Where are the best diamonds to be got? ‘Now, come,’ says he; ‘I think honestly we ought to tackle your father together.’