Dinner over, Francis Eversleigh retired to his room, again excusing
himself on the plea of headache, adding in a very uncertain voice that
he would no doubt be better in the morning; but he looked harassed,
worn, and ill. His wife concealed her consternation at his state as well
as she could, and mentally tried to assign some cause for it; on
reflection she thought that his reference at table to Harry Bennet,
whose affairs, now much involved, she knew to be in the hands of the
firm, probably suggested the correct explanation. Anxious to minister to
her husband, and to find out if possible what distressed him so sorely,
she wished to be alone with him, and she urged the others to go out for
a stroll by the river.
As the young people, nothing loth, went out, the two brothers exchanged
a few words, Gilbert asking Ernest if he knew of anything in the office
that had upset their father.
"I saw him in the forenoon," he remarked, "and he was looking as well as
could be then. I hope he's not going to have an illness."
"I know of nothing particularly worrying in the office," returned
Ernest. "How should there be? I fancy it is just as he says--he's got a
bad headache, perhaps from the heat. I don't fancy that there is
anything else the matter with him. He'll be all right to-morrow, you'll
see."
Now, when Gilbert was at Surbiton, there was an unwritten law that when
they took their walks abroad he should pair off with Kitty, and Ernest
with Helen. This arrangement was so well understood that Ernest never
thought of even grumbling at it. So Gilbert and Kitty led the way to the
terrace or esplanade on that side of the Thames, where they found a
sequestered seat. And there they were left by the other two, who walked
on towards the waterworks.
It was a delightful summer evening. The air was soft, balmy, sweet; a
light breeze whispered delicate suggestions, and wooed to pleasant
thoughts and tender fancies; a crescent moon, shining low over the trees
on to the water, brought to the scene that touch of sentiment which is
the very breath of poetry and romance. It was a night for lovers! Love,
passion, sighs, smiles, fond hopes, fervent vows, eloquent prayers, the
gentle rain of happy tears--all were in the enchanted atmosphere of the
place that night.
It was one of those magical nights on which the heart is likely to be
easily and perhaps profoundly stirred, and Gilbert Eversleigh, with the
woman he loved by his side, was in a frame of mind to respond only too
quickly to its influence. He longed to speak to Kitty, to tell her that
he loved her, to ask her to unite her life with his, to press her dear
hand, to taste the sweetness of her lips; but he forced himself to
silence, though the restraint he imposed on his desire for utterance
made it but gain the greater strength.
It may be that Kitty suspected she was on the edge of a crisis, for she
too was quiet, and for the first time in her life somehow felt shy with
Gilbert. Of course she did not require any one to tell her that he loved
her, and more than once she had asked herself if she loved him, and she
had answered "Yes." Thus, though words of love had never passed between
them, she was none the less conscious of the existence of their love.
And this made life joy, even if there was at the back of her mind a
tremulous maidenly sensitiveness which made her half afraid of her
happiness. An instinct of reserve now warned her to say or do nothing
which could be taken by Gilbert as an opening.
Therefore a sort of constraint fell upon them, but still there was a
sweetness about it; for was there not a nearness and an intimacy in the
dreamy brooding silence, the outward sign of this constraint, which was
only possible between true lovers?
And thus they sat for some minutes, apart and yet together.
It was Kitty herself who spoke first. Her thought of Gilbert associated
itself with that other subject about which she was also so glad--the
coming of her father, and it was of him she spoke.
"Do you remember my father, Gilbert?" she asked.
"Perfectly," replied Gilbert. "I had just come back from school for the
last time, and--he was very kind to me. Of course, I remember him quite
well. And--and--it was then that he brought you to our house."
"That was seven years ago," said Kitty. "Seven years! I haven't seen him
for all these years. I wonder if he is much changed? He will see a great
change in me. I was only a girl, a little girl, then, and now I am a
woman."
As she uttered the last words she glanced a little apprehensively at her
companion, for she felt she had perhaps given him an opportunity. She
saw his face was clouded; his eyes were fixed on a point in the
distance, and he did not speak.
"Your father's return," at length said he, with a sigh, "will make a
difference, I fear."
"In what way?" inquired Kitty, not at once following hard on the track
of what was passing in his mind.
"He will take you from us," said Gilbert; and then he added,
inconsequently and involuntarily, "I wonder if he will like me?"
And the girl now understood.
"Like you! Of course he will," she exclaimed, in a tone which made him
proud and happy.
There was an emphasis in her voice which seemed to assert that it would
be impossible for her father to criticise him--at all events adversely.
"It would mean so much to me," he exclaimed, turning towards her.
Kitty stole a glance at him, and she observed that his face was no
longer clouded, but bore a grave, questioning expression like that of a
man in doubt with regard to some deeply serious matter.
"It would mean all the world to me," he said, meeting her glance.
"Why?" rose to Kitty's lips, but the words went no further. For as
Gilbert kept his gaze fastened upon her, a subtle change was worked in
his eyes; they were no longer shaded with doubt or anxious inquiry; they
searched and challenged her with passionate appeal; they unmistakably
asked the question of questions man can put to woman.
And though no sound passed Kitty Thornton's lips, she made no pretence
of misunderstanding him. All the woman in her instantaneously rose up in
quick response. All the love in her heart suddenly surged up in a great
wave of feeling which flooded her eyes, now deep pools of light, with an
unmistakable answer to the unmistakable question in his, thus bent upon
her. Yet she trembled slightly, for she felt herself in the grasp of
something new and strange and delightful, but just a little terrible and
alarming.
And when Gilbert Eversleigh saw what he saw in Kitty's eyes,
self-control became impossible, and he could restrain himself no longer.
"Kitty, Kitty," he said, in a deep earnest voice which thrilled the girl
as she listened--"Kitty, my darling, I love you, I love you!"
Kitty trembled still more, and lowered her eyes shyly--perhaps to hide
the light that glowed in them.
"Kitty," he said, his voice somewhat uncertain for an instant as he
looked at her downcast face--"Kitty, my dear, you must know that I love
you. Now that I have said it, I should like to go on for ever saying 'I
love you, I love you!' You are everything to me--everything to me," he
repeated, with a lover's fond iteration. "Oh, my dear, tell me that you
love me!"
Kitty raised her eyes.
"Listen to me a moment, Kitty," said Gilbert, who had seen the message
she flashed to him, and was greatly encouraged thereby. "Let me tell you
all that is in my heart."
The girl now looked at him, some wonder in her glance, as she asked
herself if he had not said already all that was in his heart, but as he
went on she saw what he meant.
"I love you better than life," he began, "but I am not sure that I have
done right in saying to you what I have said. I had not intended----I
was carried away ..." And he paused.
"What is it?" asked Kitty, and there was such childlike trust and
innocence in the way she made this inquiry that he had to put strong
compulsion on himself to keep from placing his arm round her waist and
drawing her toward him.
"You have spoken two or three times to-day about your father," replied
Gilbert, "and each time you gave me, without knowing it, a pang,
because, Kitty dear, I am afraid that he may not think me good enough
for you, not rich enough, not placed high enough, for you. I had
intended to wait until he came before speaking to you--I suppose I ought
to have asked his permission to address you first. Do you see, Kitty?
But to-night--well, I found I could wait no longer, and so must tell you
all that was in my heart. Your father may blame me, Kitty. He might say
that you should see far more of life than you have before even thinking
of marriage. Yet, Kitty, after all it rests with you. Kitty, Kitty, what
do you say, my darling? I cannot help loving you--I can never cease to
love you. Tell me, do you love me? Say you love me!"
And he put forth his hand with a gesture of entreaty.
Long before this Kitty's shyness had fallen from her, her maidenly
hesitation had disappeared. She had a feeling that Gilbert Eversleigh
had been fore-ordained her lover before the foundations of the earth
were laid--so vast was the certainty that filled her mind. The very
statement of the difficulty in which he found himself with regard to her
father helped her inevitably to this conclusion. It was noble of him,
she thought, to take this attitude, and if he had not been able to stick
to it, was she the one to condemn him for it? No, indeed.
"You are more to me, Gilbert," she said, quietly but firmly, "than my
father--than all the fathers in the world. You are everything to me,
just as I am everything to you."
As she spoke, she inclined towards him with a beautiful movement of
surrender and invitation.
He caught her in his arms and strained her yielding form in his embrace;
their lips met and met again; a sweet agitation which grew into an
ecstasy possessed them both; they seemed to reach and stand on a
pinnacle of brightness and delight far removed from the grey levels on
which moved ordinary men and women through the shadows of life; they
murmured to each other the sweet foolish things that lovers always
murmur, and in their ears never was diviner music.
And as for Morris Thornton--why, Kitty said that he would be proud of
Gilbert, and the very first thing she would do on his arrival would be
to tell him that she was engaged.
"Of course," added Kitty, "he will be pleased, because I am pleased."
"Are you still here?" asked Ernest Eversleigh, who with his sister now
walked up to the bench where the lovers were sitting. "We thought you
were coming on after us, and we waited for you for some time, but as you
did not turn up we came back again."
And thus were the lovers brought down to the everyday world.
"Is it time to go in?" asked Gilbert, who was unamiably wishing his
brother at Jericho.
"I should think it is--particularly if you intend to catch a train to
town to-night," replied Ernest.
"Let us go in," said Kitty, rising from the seat and linking her arm
with that of Helen, somewhat to Gilbert's astonishment, until it
occurred to him that she might wish to tell the other girl what had
happened.
The party--the girls first, the brothers in the rear--now returned to
Ivydene, where on their entrance into the house they encountered Francis
Eversleigh, looking haggard and ghastly; he had felt too unutterably
wretched to stay in his room where his wife in vain sought to tend and
soothe him, and had come downstairs to see if he could not find some
distraction.
Gilbert moved up to Kitty's side, and, as the two stood together, their
faces were tell-tale.
"Father," said Gilbert, blushing furiously, "Kitty has promised to be my
wife."
Helen Eversleigh rushed forward and threw her arms round Kitty's neck,
exclaiming, "Oh, you dear!" while Ernest warmly shook his brother's
hand, but their father stood stock-still. He tried to speak, but the
words were choked in his throat. Again he essayed to say something, but
could not. With a groan he suddenly turned from them and fled upstairs.
"Father!" exclaimed Gilbert, calling after him. "What can be the matter
with him, I wonder?" he said to Ernest, who merely answered that he
could not tell.
And then the two lovers looked at each other. They both felt that
Francis Eversleigh had behaved very strangely.
"I'm afraid Mr. Eversleigh is not at all well," said Kitty. "I am so
sorry."
"Yes, father must be ill," agreed Gilbert; "still, I think it can't be
anything very serious. And now, I suppose I must go," he added with a
sigh.
The lovers bade each other good-bye in the porch. Absorbed in their
happiness, they thought no more of Francis Eversleigh.
And when Gilbert spent the following day, which was a Sunday, at
Surbiton, it was only to be expected that the lovers, after the
immemorial manner of lovers, should concern themselves with themselves
and their own affairs.
Francis Eversleigh remained in his room the whole day; he could not bear
to see any one.