_Being a further extract from the diary of Miss Marion Warrington_. It
seemed particularly unfortunate that I should be called away so
hurriedly to the bedside of dear Aunt Jane at the very moment of the
blossoming of my first real love episode. Yes, I must admit my
feelings have undergone a change regarding Mr. Rawlings, whom I call my
silent lover.
Evidently he has, all the time, been fated for me. Truly, as the poet
says, there's a Divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we
will. Divinity, so to speak, has shaped Mr. Rawlings' rough ends and
completely transformed him. After seeing him without his beard and,
above all, realizing what sacrifices he has made for my sake, I cannot
but be touched by such overwhelming devotion.
There is something almost sublime in the way that man has thrown off
the habits of a lifetime for my sake! To think he has even donned
white spats to please me! Netta has been trying for ten years to get
Henry to wear them, but he remains as obdurate about it as ever.
I was relieved when (the malady of Aunt Jane having somewhat abated) I
was able to go back to town after an urgent message from Netta asking
me to return at once. No doubt Mr. Rawlings inspired that message. He
is a timid lover, but unusually full of resource. Though, for example,
he seems afraid to approach me, he actually engaged in a mild
flirtation with Gladys Harringay to awaken my interest in him. His
intention was so obvious that I found it actually amusing. Any one
could see through it. Poor fellow, perhaps he thinks the idea of
evoking love by first arousing jealousy is a new one. He is an infant
in such matters. I intend him to remain so.
_Thursday_: I have neglected my diary for nearly a fortnight, for I
have been too troubled about Mr. Rawlings to concentrate on anything
else. He is certainly a most remarkable man. Though obviously
suffering he shrinks from any declaration. Often we are alone for
hours (I have asked dear Netta to give him the necessary opportunity to
unburden himself) and he does nothing but stare at me in a fixed and
dreadful way, and remains mute. Of course I know that I am to blame on
account of my former indifference--even antagonism--to him. He is
afraid of rebuff. I have extended encouragement to him by all the
slight means in my power, and Netta has openly handed him my photo,
observing that she knew he would like to have it. I have even gone to
the length of asking Henry to convey to him that he has nothing to
fear; but Henry resolutely refuses to touch on the subject with him. I
cannot understand why, when the happiness of two people is at stake.
_Sunday_: I don't know what impelled me to do it. Perhaps it was the
remembrance of an article of Netta's I once read entitled, 'Should
Women Propose?' where she cited the historic instance of Queen
Victoria, in whose case, on account of her rank, it was a necessity. I
had begun to realize that William was not likely to bring his courage
to the sticking point without a great deal of encouragement.
Distasteful as the idea was to me, I did not intend to shrink from what
I felt was to be my duty. If he, though languishing for love, was too
faint-hearted to propose, I saw that it would be necessary for me to
undertake that task.
Last evening, therefore, when he called I received him in the
drawing-room and explained that Netta and Henry had gone out to the
theatre. He at once made for the door, saying in that case he would
not stop, but I intercepted him. Closing the door, I said gently, 'I
am going to ask you to keep me company for an hour--if,' I added
archly, 'it won't bore you.'
In a confused sort of way he assured me it would not, and he sat down
and dropped into the silence that is becoming habitual when we are left
alone together.
I knitted and he pulled hard at his cigarette. At last I said: 'Why
don't you smoke a pipe, Mr. Rawlings? I know you prefer it.'
'No, no,' he said vehemently, 'I would much rather have a cigarette.
It's a cleaner habit than pipe-smoking, isn't it?'
I smiled faintly and mentally decided that when we were married I would
not allow him to deprive himself of one of his greatest joys for my
sake.
There was another long silence and then, feeling extremely nervous, I
murmured haltingly, 'I--I--wonder if you missed me when I was away
nursing my great sick aunt--I--I--mean my sick great-aunt.
Did--did--the time seem long?'
'I--I'm not quite sure,' he stammered, obviously as ill at ease as
myself. 'You see, to be perfectly frank, Miss Warrington, I was at the
time in love as far as I believe, and it seems a confused period.'
I waited for him to continue, my eyes discreetly lowered. As, however,
he did not go on, I raised them again.
'Yes?' I said encouragingly.
'That's all,' he replied. He looked so embarrassed and unhappy, and
wore such an imploring expression I realized that now or never I must
come to his relief.
I laid down my knitting and leaned forward. 'Mr. Rawlings,' I said
impressively--'or, shall I say William--I have known of the state of
your feelings towards me for some time now.'
He raised his head, and there was no disguising the look of hope in his
eye. 'Do you really mean that?' he asked eagerly.
I nodded. 'I want to tell you not to be afraid. However harsh I once
seemed to you, the sight of your devotion and self-sacrifice has
touched me.'
'Devotion--self-sacrifice,' he murmured in a wondering tone.
'As such do I regard them, William. But they have reaped their reward.
I . . . how shall I tell you . . . it is so difficult . . .'
I paused in some distress, wondering if Queen Victoria had felt as
uncomfortable about it as I did.
'I want to tell you that . . . I love you, William,' I said at last,
very softly.
There was an intense silence, broken only by his laboured breathing.
The intensity of his emotions was evidently too much for him.
'And so,' I concluded, raising my eyes to his for a moment, 'I am going
to be your wife.'
There! It was out at last. Having spoken I lowered my eyes again and
did not look at him until I heard him say in a strained kind of voice,
'But--but--this is too much honour. Believe me, Miss Warrington, I am
not worthy----'
'I think you are,' I replied softly, 'and isn't that enough?'
'It isn't enough--I assure you it isn't,' he replied. I noted that his
eyes had a rather staring look and slight beads of perspiration had
broken out on his forehead--he must be a man of strong emotions. 'It
would be a most unfair thing for a man like me, with all my
shortcomings, to inflict myself on any woman.'
'Don't be too modest about yourself,' I put in encouragingly, and
somewhat timidly laying my hand on his, I added, 'I like you as you
are.'
'Nothing would induce me to let you sacrifice yourself,' he exclaimed
hotly, 'it would be monstrous, intolerable!' He sprang to his feet as
he spoke. 'I must go at once,' he went on, 'we can never meet again,
never, never!'
I rose also, going rather pale. In that moment a dreadful thought came
to me that perhaps I had made a mistake. Yet there could have been no
misconstruing what he had said to Elizabeth regarding his passion for
me.
'Stop, William!' I cried as he retreated to the door, 'why are you so
obtuse? Don't you understand how difficult you are making everything
for me--as well as for yourself! What is all this talk of sacrifice
and your unworthiness. I don't think you are unworthy. I--I--love
you--isn't it enough when I say that?'
[Illustration: 'Stop, William!' Marion cried.]
Involuntarily I stretched out my hands to him as I spoke. He has told
me since that the sight of me standing there bathed in the light of the
rose-shaded lamp, my eyes and lips unusually soft and tender (so he
says), with my arms held out to him, forms a picture that he will never
forget. He looked at me for a moment in absolute silence, and appeared
to be thinking deeply. When at last he spoke he made an astonishing
remark. 'What does it matter about me, after all?' he murmured slowly,
as if speaking to himself. 'Good God, little woman, I was just about
to act the part of a consummate cad and coward!'
He then strode up to me and continued in a serious tone: 'If you care
enough for me to take me with all my faults, I shall be proud to be
your husband.'
After which he bent and kissed me very gravely on the forehead, and
surprised me by walking out of the room. It was the most remarkable
proposal. But then, in every way, my dear William is a most remarkable
man.