"WILL YOU?"
MONDAY came, and Euphrasia went through her good-byes with no
particular distress, so far as Mrs. Johnston and Letitia were
concerned. She had not quite so soon to bid farewell to Mr. Wells; and
something in her heart whispered that this would not be so light a
matter. But she tried to put aside the thought. Time enough when the
moment should arrive.
Mrs. Johnston had looked dubious when the scheme of Euphrasia's
"escort" was propounded to her. Yet after all it was only a matter
of some forty minutes together in the train, and Euphrasia was such
an uninteresting girl, and Robert, though not very far over thirty,
might have passed for nearer forty. And Mrs. Johnston was extremely
desirous to get Euphrasia safely off her premises. And if she raised
difficulties, there was no knowing what amount of delays might be the
result. So she left matters to arrange themselves.
And when a line came from Mr. Mackenzie stating that he would be at
the Junction, she wished she had not been so complaisant. No doubt Mr.
Mackenzie would have agreed with equal readiness to come the whole
distance to Clifton—"which would have been so much more correct!" she
complained to Letitia. But it was then too late for any re-shaping of
plans.
Mr. Wells was grave still, and disposed to silence, albeit studiously
attentive to his fellow-traveller's needs. He had not once relaxed
since the Thursday interview. And Euphrasia was still puzzled whether
to count that he had been displeased, or only pained, by aught that she
had said—and if either, by what? Puzzled though she might be, however,
a certain womanly reticence withheld her from making any attempt at
explanation or apology.
Mr. Wells gave to Euphrasia a "Graphic" and occupied himself with the
"Times." He seemed disposed to make a very limited use of this last
opportunity for intercourse. Once and again he looked up to enquire
briefly, "Quite comfortable?"
And receiving her assent, he returned to his leading articles.
Other passengers were in the same compartment. Indeed, he had chosen a
somewhat full carriage at starting, but one after another vanished at
successive stations. And no new ones filled the vacant places.
The last of their companions got out at the last station before West
Norton. Only a few minutes more! Yet still the doctor read on, or, at
all events, he pretended to do so.
Suddenly he stopped, folded his paper neatly into a minute compass, put
it into his bag, and glanced across at Euphrasia, with the remark—
"Nearly there!"
"Yes!" A sense of the coming "good-bye" assailed Euphrasia, and a lump
came into her throat. This would not do! She held it down fiercely.
The doctor looked her over with a calmly critical air of medical
observation.
"Getting done up with your journey?"
"No, thanks!" Euphrasia spoke gruffly. Anything rather than to have him
see what she felt, if he did not feel the same; and evidently he did
not.
"We shall be at the Junction in five minutes or so. You say your father
will be there. I shall give you over to him."
"And have done with you!" occurred to Euphrasia, as an appropriate
conclusion.
He had spoken in an odd cut-and-dried tone, but something made
Euphrasia raise her eyes, and she saw that the face belied the voice.
A curious pitying gentleness had crept into it, and he leant forward
to pull straight the light rug over her knees—a needless attention,
since they were just on the point of arriving. Euphrasia found herself
disposed to tremble.
Five minutes more!—less than five minutes!—and then, perhaps, never in
life to meet again. Never, after a whole month of daily intercourse.
True, the month's intercourse might have meant absolutely nothing
to either of them; and in the majority of cases it would have meant
nothing, being purely a case of professional intercourse. But—it 'had'
meant more to her. Euphrasia knew now—she had not known before—to some
extent how things were.
Less than five minutes! So much the better, for fear she might betray
herself. And yet—if it had but been one more half-hour!
"Not in pain, I hope?" came in a voice of grave concern.
Euphrasia looked up again, quite involuntarily, to meet his gaze of
kind enquiry. To her utter horror, she found her eyes suddenly full;
nay, worse than full, actually overflowing. Two great drops fell, clear
and visible, despite all she could do. Euphrasia felt as if she could
gladly have sunk into the floor of the compartment.
"Ah, I was afraid that the journey might be rather too much for you,"
said Mr. Wells, with no appearance of surprise. "You are not strong
yet. Never mind; a good rest by-and-by will put it all right." He bent
forward, and continued—"Do you think that some day I might venture to
find my way to your home? I have your West Norton address."
The reserve on which Euphrasia was wont to pride herself scarcely
served in the present emergency. It was impossible that the doctor
should fail to see the change in her face. "Oh do!" she said eagerly.
"Oh do!" Then alarmed at her own delight—"I am sure—quite sure—they
would all be so glad. My father—"
"Your father would not object?"
"O no, indeed!"
"And would you be, perhaps, just a slight degree pleased too—yourself?"
The train was slackening outside the station, not yet at the platform.
A minute or two remained. Euphrasia could only say shyly—"O yes!"
Adding after a pause—"You have been so good to me."
"Do you think you could let me go on being 'good' to you?" Robert had
not intended to say more at present. In fact, he had very nearly come
to a settled conclusion never to say anything more at all because Miss
Mackenzie so evidently regarded him from nothing more nor less than the
professional point of view. But her sudden and unmistakable distress
put a new face on matters, and severely shook his resolution. Suppose,
after all, that he were mistaken—that she did care? "I almost thought,
last week, that your one wish was to see nothing more of any of us!"
"Oh, how could—" Euphrasia broke off in confusion.
"How could I think so? People misread one another sometimes. Perhaps
I fancied you would have understood better—have seen intuitively how
things really were!" Robert Wells looked out of the window, but the
train remained motionless.
Half-a-minute passed in silence. Then an impulse seized him, too strong
to be restrained, and he spoke again:—
"Euphrasia, could you make up your mind to be a doctor's wife? Will you
be mine?"
Euphrasia almost gasped for breath. The utmost for which she had
definitely craved was that some day they might meet again, that this
parting should not be a parting for always. She had wanted him still
for a friend. But—to be his wife! Did he mean it? Had she grasped his
words in their true sense?
The train began to move.
"We are just there," said Wells, gently. "I don't want to hurry you.
Shall I come to West Norton for an answer in two or three days? That
would give you time?"
"O no!" Euphrasia, crimson and confused, hardly knew what she said.
"No!" The doctor's face fell. He might be excused for not understanding.
"I only mean—Oh, I don't mean—I do not want time—I only—"
"You only do not quite know your own mind. I have taken you too much by
surprise."
Euphrasia pulled herself together, with a resolute effort, and looked
up at him once more, her eyes full of a happy light. "Yes, I 'do'
know," she said. "And I mean—if my father is willing—"
"If he is willing—"
"I mean—Yes!"
Not more than twenty seconds remained to them, but of those twenty
Robert Wells made the best possible use.
Then the train drew up, and Mr. Mackenzie's face appeared in the window.
"Euphrasia, my dear! Welcome home! Better, child? Why, I never saw you
look so well! Such a colour! So your friend, the old doctor, did not
come after all."
"Father,—'this' is Mr. Wells!" murmured Euphrasia, unable to meet his
gaze.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]