‘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’t he 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 only a 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; ‘too much 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 the doing 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 me remorselessly 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 against his 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.’