CHAPTER II. WOMEN’S VOICES
CHAPTER III. THE UNFINISHED SENTENCE
CHAPTER IV. THE EPISODE OF THE BAKER’S BOY
CHAPTER V. THE FURTHER EPISODES OF THE SHOP-WALKER AND THE ARTIST IN
HAIR
CHAPTER VI. MISS NORAH FEELS ODD
CHAPTER VII. MISS NORAH RECEIVES TWO GENTLEMEN
CHAPTER VIII. MEN ARE DECEIVERS EVER
CHAPTER IX. MORE TREACHERY
CHAPTER X. THE COMPROMISE
CHAPTER XI. THE TURNING OF THE WORM
CHAPTER XII. MISS NORAH’S SOLILOQUY
CHAPTER XIII. JANE
CHAPTER XIV. A QUARTER TO SEVEN
CHAPTER XV. TRAMPLING UPON FIVE
CHAPTER XVI. THE DINNER WHICH FAILED
CHAPTER XVII. THE BROWN MAN
CHAPTER XVIII. BEFORE THE CURTAIN
CHAPTER XIX. AN UNREHEARSED EFFECT
CHAPTER XX. THE BROUGHAM
CHAPTER XXI. THE SINGULAR WOOING
CHAPTER XXII. I BEHAVE LIKE A GOOSE
CHAPTER XXIII. “UNTIL?”
CHAPTER XXIV. THE FINISHED SENTENCE
CHAPTER XXV. THE BROWN MAN’S APOLOGY
CHAPTER XXVI. ON THE SINGULAR EFFECTS OF SUNLIGHT
THE MAGNETIC GIRL
CHAPTER I.
A MAN
It was the most extraordinary thing that ever happened to anyone. I
really hardly know how to begin to tell about it. I was doing my hair
before the looking-glass in my bedroom--and I could not help noticing
that it was rather a curious colour, though my eyes were nearly
blinded by tears of rage, and something else. The rage was because
Lilian and Audrey and Eveleen and Doris, and mother too, had been
saying all the nasty things they could to me. The something else was
because Benjamin Morgan had asked me to be his wife.
There--it’s out! My first proposal of marriage--my very, very first!
and that it should have come from him! It made me go hot all over with
shame and disgust and a most singular variety of feelings.
They had been teasing me about him for ever so long; congratulating
me--of course, with the most biting sarcasm--on having made a conquest
at last. I am twenty-three, and nearly twenty-four, and no man ever
paid me the least attention--until Mr Morgan began. And I wished he
had not; because they made the most dreadful fun of him, and teased me
more than they had ever done before--which is saying more than words
can describe--on account of his being a hunchback. At least, he’s not
exactly a hunchback, though they say he is: but I do like to be
accurate, and I don’t care who laughs at me, and I’m quite sure that
it’s only one shoulder which is a little higher than the other.
There’s no denying that he is rather short for a man. His nurse
dropped him when he was a baby. For years they never thought that he
would live. If it were not for that there would be nothing against
him. He has a nice face,--no one can say that there is anything the
matter with that; with big black eyes, and the sweetest smile, and the
pleasantest voice. He was the most thoughtful person I ever met. As
generous as could be. He never said disagreeable things about anyone.
I never saw him impatient, or out of temper. Though he had a way,
sometimes, of making you understand that he was hurt by something
which had been said or done, which made you feel that you were a
perfect wretch.
If he had not been crooked! They never ceased to laugh at me because
of “Crooked Ben,”--as they loved to call him. It got to such a state
that I grew to hate the sight of him. At the mere mention of his name
I would go hot all over;--they were always dragging him in by the head
and ears! Persisting--in season and out of season!--in telling me how
glad they were that I had some sort of an admirer at last, even if it
wasn’t a very straight one. That made me so wild that I would declare
that he was no admirer of mine, though I could not help but suspect
the contrary. Then, of course, they would go on worse than ever,
saying that having a lover like that was almost like having two:
because he had two such different sides to him that no one would
suppose that the one belonged to the other; and that when he was my
husband I might call one side of him by one name, and the other by
another. I have not the very best of tempers, and when they talked
like that I would fly into such rages; vowing and declaring that
nothing on earth would ever induce me to have anything to do with him,
and that nothing was further from his mind than the idea of asking me,
since I had given him no sort of encouragement, but, on the contrary,
had given him clearly to understand that I did not desire even his
acquaintance.
And now, in spite of all my vows and declarations, he had actually
made me a proposal of marriage. If they ever came to hear of it I
might as well go into a lunatic asylum at once; because they would
certainly end by driving me there.
And yet I was not so sure as I should have liked to have been that I
was beside myself with indignation at the mere notion of his audacity.
Though, of course, I was wild. But, I suppose, the fact is, if you
never have had a proposal from anyone, in a kind of a way it is
interesting to have an offer from anyone or anything,--even from, in a
manner of speaking, a monkey on a stick. If only just to know what it
sounds like and how it’s done.
Everything was against Mr Morgan from the very start;--I will own
that. When he met me I was in a red-hot rage. If a king on his throne
had asked me to be his wife I should have felt like scratching him.
Mother had just been telling me that I was getting dowdier and
dowdier, and uglier and uglier every day, and if that sort of remark
makes anyone feel like sugar and spice and all that’s nice, then all I
can say is that it doesn’t me. I had really gone out to get something
in High Street. But the thought of what a dreary waste my life
actually was made me turn away from shops in disgust, and seek the
solitude of Kensington Gardens. I had scarcely gone fifty yards along
the Broad Walk when I all but ran against Mr Morgan. The sight of him
made me madder than ever. He just looked at me. When he was near I
used to have a horrid feeling that he understood me almost as well as
I did myself; and that he more than suspected that I was an ugly
duckling in my way almost as much as he was in his. It made me wild,
the idea of being bracketed, in any sense whatever, with him.
I noticed what a shiny top-hat he had on,--I never saw anyone who wore
more beautiful top-hats; his taste was excellent; he was always
faultlessly dressed. I was filled with a vindictive desire to knock
off his hat with my parasol, and kick it; I did so feel like kicking
someone. There can be no real doubt that I have both a bad temper and
savage instincts. But so far was he from realising what was passing
through my mind that he gave me what was unmistakably a look of
sympathy;--there is nothing I hate so much as being sympathised with.
The thought that he was doing so made me wilder than ever. But before
I had a chance of snubbing him he began--
“I was just thinking of you, Miss Norah.”
“It’s a pity you were not better employed,” I retorted, with a
conspicuous display of both gratitude and good breeding.
“Thank you. Your pity is wasted. I could not be better employed.”
His unruffled air made me disposed to be ruder than ever; and I was
just about to tell him that it was most unfortunate that he had no
better occupation for his time, when off he started,--right in the
middle of the Broad Walk, in front of all the people, without the
slightest prelude.
“I could hardly be better employed than in thinking of the woman I
wish to make my wife. And you are she.--Norah, will you be my wife?”
I was so startled,--genuinely startled, that I was thrown all in a
fluster. That he had had some faint notion at the back of his head I
had feared; I do not mind admitting it. But that it had anything like
come to a head I had never imagined. That I do protest. Still less had
I supposed that, under any circumstances, he would blurt it out in
that public place, and in that extraordinary manner. It was entirely
contrary to my most cherished notions. I could conceive of a
declaration being led up to gradually--of its taking a final form in
some delicate phrase, amidst suitable surroundings, at an appropriate
moment.
But that, five seconds after encountering me in a tearing temper,
amidst crowds of people, anyone should ask me, in a casual sort of
manner, to be his wife, as if he were asking for the next dance--that
I had not conceived of as possible. I felt, for the moment, as if I
was breathless; looking at him as if to make sure whether I could
believe the evidence of my eyes and ears.
“What did you say?”
“I asked you if you will be my wife. Will you, Norah?”
Not a word about love. Not a hint of any admiration he might feel; of
regard which had been gradually growing up within his breast. Not a
sign of perturbation. I had read about the awkward shyness, the
painful self-consciousness, with which some men approached that most
delicate of subjects. There were no symptoms of anything of the kind
about Mr Benjamin Morgan. At least, he did not wear them on his
exterior. His tone and manner could not have been more matter-of-fact,
if he had been asking me whether I thought that it was going to rain.
I was so taken aback, that I hardly knew how to treat him. I tried
dignity.
“Is this a jest?” I inquired. “If so, you must allow me to observe
that I don’t think it is quite in the best of taste.”
“If it were a jest, it would be in the very worst of taste. But it is
not a jest, and you know it.”
Really, he was even more dignified than I was. Had I not known it was
impossible, I might have supposed that he was snubbing me on account
of the suggestion I had made. As if it had not been the most
reasonable one in the world. I said nothing. The truth is, I could
think of nothing to say. The position was such an excessively peculiar
one, that I did not feel myself at once capable of treating him with
the crushing scorn which I was becoming rapidly conscious he deserved.
What he imagined my silence meant, I cannot say; but though it seems
nearly incredible, I am almost drawn to the conclusion that he took it
to imply encouragement. The calm way in which he went on talking
forces me to think it.
“I do not fancy we have had very happy lives, either you or I. I take
it that we have both led Robinson Crusoe sort of existences, on desert
islands of our own. I am a lonely man; you are a lonely girl.”
“I a lonely girl! Are you forgetting that I have four sisters and a
mother?”
“No; I am not forgetting it. But one may have a host of mere
relations, and yet be all alone.”
“Mere relations!” I liked the word. I began to bristle all over. How
dare he speak of my four sisters--not to mention mamma!--as “mere”
relations. His assurance was increasing. I had never supposed him
capable of such audacity.
“I will trouble you to speak of my family with respect, Mr Morgan, and
not as if they were persons of absolutely no account.”
“Nothing was further from my wish than to speak of any member of your
family with disrespect. But I think that even you will admit that,
even in your own home, you are alone.”
It made me furious to hear him say so,--even though it might be true.
It was no business of anybody’s how my own people chose to treat me;
they had no right to even notice. Nothing is more unpleasant than to
have a stranger spying on what happens to you in the bosom of your own
family. And so I longed to tell him.
“You are quite mistaken, Mr Morgan. I am not lonely--not in the very
least--ever! And I cannot conceive what leads you to suppose that I
am.”
“I recognise the chivalry which prompts your answer.”
“Chivalry!--What are you talking about, Mr Morgan?--Have you lost your
senses?”
“No; not yet. As I trust that you will afford me opportunities of
proving to you. I at least am lonely--I believe the very loneliest
creature in the whole world. I want you to take pity on my solitude.”
“I am very sorry for you if you are so much alone.”
“Do you mean it?”
“Of course I mean it. Why do you persist in hinting that I keep on
saying what I don’t mean?”
“If you do mean it--really mean it--then you have made of me the
happiest of men.”
“That’s nonsense. It’s absurd to say that my being sorry for you can
make you happy.”
“It is not absurd; because if you are really sorry--as you say you
are--you will put an end to my loneliness.”
I looked at him, beginning to get red all over. It commenced to dawn
upon me what he meant. I had not supposed that he was a master of such
roundabout ways.
“I quite fail to understand you, Mr Morgan.”
“Is it not plain that, if you are really sorry for me, you will be my
wife? And then I can assure you, from the bottom of my heart, that I
shall be the happiest of men.”
Such insidious methods of arriving at entirely erroneous conclusions I
was unaccustomed to. It was becoming momentarily plain to me that I
had not known Mr Benjamin Morgan so well as I imagined. I had supposed
that he was an artless sort of person; and now it almost began to
appear that he was a regular Jesuit.
“I do wish, Mr Morgan, that you would not talk nonsense. I am not
feeling very well, and I can assure you that I am in anything but a
mood for frivolity.”
“Then our moods are in sympathy. You surely do not suggest that to ask
you to be my wife is to be frivolous. It is to me the most important
question that ever yet was asked. The expression of your sympathy
emboldens me to put it again.--Norah, please say that you will be my
wife.”
He raised his hand, and with the tips of his fingers touched my
arm--out there in the Broad Walk, before all the people. Something
seemed, all at once, to go right through me;--whether it was the
sudden surprise of his touch, or the strangeness of his tone, I could
not say. But for the moment I felt almost inclined to cry--and to do
something much worse. For one dreadful second I was almost on the
verge of making a perfect idiot of myself. It is frightful to think of
such a thing being possible, but I am nearly disposed to believe that
if we had been alone, and there had been nothing to divert my
attention, I might have done. But just at that second I saw Lena
Portch coming towards us with Mr Champneys, and the smile which she
gave made me frantic. She is Lilian’s particular friend, and quite as
fond of chaffing me about “Crooked Ben” as any of them. I could not
but suspect that there might be something a little peculiar about our
attitude, and the way we were behaving to one another. The idea that I
should allow him to make a public spectacle of me, and furnish Lena
with a first-rate tale for Lilian, was unendurable. I became all at
once so angry--so stupidly angry!--that I forgot my manners
altogether, not to speak of any fragments of common decency which I
may suppose myself to possess, and behaved myself like the absolute
little wretch which at heart I am.
“Thank you. I am obliged to you for your offer, Mr Morgan. But I do
not care to marry just at present; and, when I do marry, I intend to
marry a man.”
No one need tell me that it was a perfectly disgraceful thing to say.
No one could have been better aware of it than I was. I could have
bitten my own tongue off for having said it the very moment
afterwards: I never should have said it at all if it had not been for
the horrid smile I saw on Lena’s face, and my instant perception of
the sort of yarn she would make all possible haste to spin. I know
that that is not the least excuse; but it is all the excuse I have to
offer,--I could cry at the mere thought of it even now.
Lena and Mr Champneys passed on. Mr Morgan was still. He just looked
at me once,--a startled, dreadful sort of look; and then he looked
away, walking on by my side in silence. I seemed somehow to have
caught a sudden chill. I was shivering all over,--I could have beaten
myself with pleasure. How long the silence lasted, or how far we
walked before we spoke again, I have not the faintest notion. But I
know that at last he stood still, and turned, and looked at me,--and
there was something in his look which seemed to make my heart go cold
as ice. He said--there was a quiver in his voice which made me flinch
as if he had struck me with a whip,--
“When you do marry, you intend to marry a man. I had not thought, Miss
Norah, that you would have said that to me. Good-day;--and good-bye.”
He raised his hat, and walked away, and left me speechless, rooted to
the ground, feeling, as I deserved to feel, like an utter fool;--like
a wicked, cruel, thoughtless, idiotic fool,--and worse than that!