A fortnight had passed since the fatal accident in Brighton Woods, and
life at Gray Gables had once more resumed the even tenor of its regular
routine.
The first words that Doctor Bryan had gasped out to his friend, when he
regained consciousness and found himself fatally injured, were:
"Tell--tell--them at home--that--everything--must go--on--the
same--until--after--my will--has--been read--and that--must not
be--until--six--months--after--my--decease."
The sudden loss of Doctor Bryan, the kind-hearted old gentleman who had
raised her from poverty to great wealth, was a severe blow to Dorothy.
For in that short length of time she had learned to love him, as a
daughter might have done, with all the strength of her passionate,
girlish heart.
The old housekeeper and the servants, who had been in his employ a
quarter of a century or more, mourned for him and refused to be
comforted.
Great was the excitement in the household when the friend who had
accompanied Doctor Bryan on that fatal ride broke to them the strange
compact between the doctor and Kendal, to which he had been a witness.
He readily decided that it was best not to tell Dorothy the exact
situation of affairs, and that it would probably be more in accordance
with a young girl's romantic idea of marriage for Kendal to woo her on
his own account, and gain her consent, ere he breathed to her that this
was Doctor Bryan's wish.
And this was the course that Kendal followed. He allowed fully a month
to transpire ere he made the slightest advances to her. Long and
carefully he had thought the matter over in his own mind, and had
concluded that there was no way out of the strange betrothal into which
he had been forced, as it were, against his will.
He made up his mind to accept the situation gracefully and become
engaged to Dorothy, and if he found out that she had not been remembered
in the old gentleman's will, he could break it without one word of
warning or the least compunction. He noticed, too, that Dorothy was
growing quite shy of him of late. She had been quite fond of him in the
past; it would never do to allow her to grow indifferent to him. He
made up his mind to settle the matter--as far as the engagement was
concerned--at the first opportunity; and one presented itself on the
very day he made this resolve.
Dorothy was in the conservatory that afternoon, when he suddenly
surprised her, stealing up on tip-toe behind her, clasped her in his
arms, holding his hands over her eyes, whispering:
"Guess who it is, Dorothy."
The struggle to escape those firm arms suddenly ceased. The girl was
dumbfounded with amazement.
"Is it--can it be you, Harry--Mr. Kendal?" she gasped, breathlessly.
"Do you wish it were some one else, Dorothy?" he whispered, releasing
her from his arms, but catching her hands in a tight clasp and looking
eagerly down into her eyes.
The girl's face flushed burning red, and her gaze fell beneath a pair of
dark eyes that seemed to search into her very soul. But in an instant
she recovered something of her old hoidenish composure; and in that
moment she remembered, too, how he had seemed to slight her of late, and
her pride rebelled hotly.
"How dare you frighten me so, Harry Kendal?" she cried, drawing back and
stamping her little foot, her blue eyes blazing angrily.
"Are you so very displeased?" he inquired, reproachfully, adding
quietly: "If that is the case, I beg your pardon. I shall never so
trespass again;" and he dropped her hand and turned away, walking
moodily to the window.
"Gracious! I have done it now!" thought Dorothy, repenting on the
instant; and, as he made no effort to turn around or speak to her
again, she advanced slowly to where he stood idly drumming upon the
window-sill.
"I wasn't so very angry," she began, hesitatingly, picking nervously at
the blue ribbons which tied her long, curling hair. "I said I wasn't so
very angry!" repeated Dorothy, nervously. He heard her, but never turned
his head, and Dorothy was at a loss what to say next to mend matters.
"Would you like a rose?" she stammered.
"Thanks--no!" replied Kendal, shortly, still without turning his head.
Then, after a brief pause:
"Or would you like me to show you a new book of poems I just bought?"
"You needn't mind. Pray don't trouble yourself," he responded.
Dorothy looked at him an instant, quite as though she was ready to cry;
then the best thing that could have happened, under the circumstances,
came to her relief.
She grew angry.
"I wouldn't show you the book now, to save your life!" she cried, her
breath coming and going in panting gasps, and her cheeks flaming as
scarlet as the deep-red rose she had brought him as a peace-offering;
"nor would I give you this flower. I'd tear it up and stamp it beneath
my feet first--you are so mean!"
He turned with a very tantalizing smile, and looked at her out of the
corners of his eyes.
She had hidden her face in her hands, but by the panting of her breast
he saw that she was weeping, that a storm of sobs was shaking her
childish frame.
He stooped and passed his arm lightly around the slim waist, his hand
holding hers.
Dorothy trembled.
"Won't you let me comfort you?" he asked, in that low, winning voice of
his.
The thought flashed across Dorothy's brain that, if she pushed him from
her, he would never again put his arms about her, and she meekly endured
the caress for an instant; and not being repulsed, he grew bold enough
to kiss the rosy cheek that peeped out from between the white fingers.
"I have something to say to you, Dorothy," he whispered. "It is this: I
love you! Will you be my wife?"
Dorothy had always imagined just how a lover should propose, but she had
never imagined anything so commonplace as this.
He stooped to caress her again, but she drew back.
"You frighten me!" she cried; and at these words he instantly released
her.
"It is alarming--being kissed--and especially when you're not used to
it. But that does not answer my question. Will you marry me, or will you
not?"
"I don't know!" cried Dorothy, faintly. "You mustn't ask me; you must
talk to Mrs. Kemp about it."
"I might talk to Mrs. Kemp about changing my room in the house, or ask
her concerning anything belonging to the household, but I couldn't think
of asking her to find me a wife and to seal the bargain for me. The
'Yes' or 'No' must be said by the girl herself, as she is the one who is
to live with me and to make the best or the worst of the bargain
through life. Now, Dorothy, I want a plain, straightforward answer.
Tell me, will you be my bride?"
She colored and smiled, and the sort of shy half fear which always
assailed her at his approach came over her now more strongly than ever,
and the quick blood came rushing to her finger-ends.
"I--don't know what to say!" gasped Dorothy. "I couldn't marry anybody,
I think."
His arms dropped from about her.
"Am I to understand, then," he asked, in a constrained voice, "that you
refuse me?"
"Oh, I don't know!" cried Dorothy, melting into fresh, quick tears.
"I--I--should want to ask somebody about it first before I said 'Yes.'"
He had quite believed that she would accept him on the spot the moment
he proposed, and her failure to do this made him almost catch his breath
in astonishment.
This uncertainty in the matter gave more zest to his ardor.
"You dislike me?" he questioned, wondering if that could possibly be.
"Oh, no, no! I like you. Won't you believe me?"
He stepped back and looked at her with a sarcastic smile--looked at the
little figure leaning against the fountain, with one hand resting on the
rim of it, the other held out imploringly toward him.
"Believe you? Why do you insist upon making me uncivil?" he replied. "I
do _not_ believe you! I dare say you fancy that you are telling the
truth; but if another man were to come on the scene with a few thousands
a year more, and a higher position in the social scale, you would have
a very different answer for him at your tongue's end."
He looks at her--looks at the innocently wooing arms--at the
tear-stained, dimpled, tremulous face, and, now that he thinks that he
can not win her, all in an instant he falls madly in love with her.
"You must answer me, here and now!" he cried; but Dorothy turned from
him, and, like a startled fawn, slipped through his outstretched hands,
through the conservatory, and out of the corridor beyond, leaving him
staring after her, his handsome face pale with emotion.
Dorothy never paused until she reached her own room.
She closed and locked the door with trembling hands and beating heart;
then, after the fashion of young girls, she laughed and cried
hysterically all in a breath, dancing around the room in a mad fashion,
clapping her hands and sobbing out:
"Oh, at last--at last, my hero, my ideal has turned from a block of
marble to human clay, and tells me that he loves me and wants me to be
his wife--me--a silly little thing like me!" and she paused before the
glass, wondering what he saw in the pink-and-white face reflected there
to love forever and ever. She wished she knew.