“Come, that’s encouraging! May I hope that she will consent to our marriage?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t asked her, you see, and all she has said so far is that she wants to know you better.”
“I wish you will tell me, Cressy, whether you mean to be ruled by her decision?”
She shook her head. “No. I make my own decisions.” She thought for a moment, and then said, with a gleam of mischief: “I might make her decision my excuse!”
“Oh, no, I don’t think you would! You’re no shuffler,” he responded coolly.
“How can you know that?” she asked, meeting his eyes with a surprised question in her own.
He smiled. “It isn’t difficult to know it: no extraordinary intelligence is necessary to enable one to perceive that your mind is direct. You don’t talk flowery commonplace, and you’re not afraid to come to the point.” He paused. “That being so, tell me what it is you wish to say to me! I fancy you didn’t invite me to visit you only to discover what my stipulation was.”
“No,” she acknowledged. Her colour was a little heightened; she said, with a touch of shyness: “I hardly know why I did ask you to come. You will think me very far from direct! You see, when you proposed to me, I was in a horrid quarrel with Albinia—a vulgar pulling of caps, as women do! I wished of all things to go away from here, not only because I was hurt and angry, but because I saw that it wouldn’t do for me to remain. Albinia is anxious to be rid of me, and I can’t blame her, for I find I am becoming one of those detestable people who are for ever picking out grievances, or coming to cuffs over trifles. And when I made the really shocking discovery that I was hoping that Albinia’s child, which she is so certain will be a son, will be a daughter—just to take the wind out of her eye!—I knew that I must go away.” She pressed her hands to her flushed cheeks. “So ignoble!” she uttered, in a stifled voice.
“But very natural,” Kit said. “A son to put your nose out of joint, eh?”
She nodded. “Yes, that was it. But to allow oneself to be put into a flame by such a cut—spoken in a mere fit of crossness, too—!”
“I consider it stands greatly to your credit that you didn’t divulge your ignoble wish.”
She forced a smile. “I’m not quite as direct as that.”
“You may put it so, if you choose: I should have said that you are not so wanting in conduct!”
“Thank you: that was kind in you!”
“No, only truthful. Were you in a passion when I proposed to you? I didn’t guess it.”
“Oh, no, not then! Merely determined to put an end to a miserably uncomfortable situation, and unable to think how it could be done.” She hesitated, and continued, with a little difficulty: “I had never meant to have remained here when my father was married again. I thought—hoped—that Grandmama would have invited me to live with her. She didn’t, however. I dare say you’ll understand that I didn’t care to ask her.”
“Readily! Also, that, Grandmama having failed to come to the scratch, my arrival on the scene was providential!”
“Yes, that’s the truth,” she said frankly. “I don’t mean that I would have accepted any offer. But although I was so little acquainted with you I liked you very well, and I knew, from what Lady Denville told me, that you were kind, and good-natured, and—”
“Stop!” he interrupted. “My poor girl, how could you allow yourself to be so taken-in? If you mean to accept me at my mother’s valuation a shocking disappointment awaits you! She is the most dotingly fond parent imaginable, and can detect no fault in either of her sons.”
She laughed. “Oh, I know that! But you are dotingly fond of her, and so charmingly attentive to her that I don’t know how she should detect your faults. I liked that in you too. And although I shouldn’t have thought of marriage if Grandmama had invited me to live with her I knew that it wouldn’t be easy to do that, because I had discovered by then that when one has held the reins for four years, as I did here, and at Stavely, it is the most difficult thing in the world to become a mere young lady, obedient to the decrees of her elders. You see, I never was that! So when you offered for me, Denville, it did seem to me that I should be a ninnyhammer to refuse you, only because I was not in love with you, or you with me. You were not disagreeable to me: I dearly love your mama; and you offered me not only your hand but the—the position to which I am accustomed.” She paused, and after thinking for a moment, said: “And to be honest with you, having endured several taunts on my age, and being at my last prayers, I was strongly attracted by the notion of catching one of the biggest prizes on the Marriage Mart!”
He shook his head. “Very ignoble!”
“Yes, wasn’t it?” she agreed, answering the laughter in his eyes with one of her merriest twinkles. “But understandable—don’t you think?”
“Well, never having regarded myself in that flattering light—”
“Oh, what flummery!” she interjected. “You must be well aware of it! But it’s all nonsense, of course: when you had left me that day, and I had leisure to reflect, I knew it.” She scanned his face, her brow puckered. “I don’t know how it is, but when you came here last night I—I had almost decided to tell you it would not do. Thinking about it, not seeing you again after that interrupted talk—which was attended by a good deal of awkwardness, was it not?—and having had leisure to reflect more calmly—I had misgivings—began to think that we should not suit—that I had accepted your offer in a distempered freak! Then, last night, I met you again, and—” She stopped, her frown deepening. He waited, speechless, and she said, with one of her open looks: “I liked you much better than ever before!”
He still said nothing, for there was nothing he could think of to say. Various thoughts chased one another through his head: that Evelyn was more fortunate than he knew; that the part he himself was playing was even more odious than he had foreseen; that he must remove himself from her vicinity immediately; that when she saw Evelyn again she must surely be conscious of his superior qualities.
“And now I don’t know!” she confessed. “I was never in such a—such a bumble-broth in my life, and how I come to be so stupid as not to know my own mind I can’t imagine! Such a thing has never happened to me before, for, in general, I should warn you, I do know it!”
“I can believe that,” he said. “You have a great look of decision! I conjecture that once your mind is made up there can be no turning you from it!”
“Yes, I fear that’s true,” she replied seriously. “I hope I may not be arrogant: one of those overmighty women, who grow to be like poor Grandmama!”
“I don’t think there can be any fear of that!” he said, amused.
“I trust you may be right! I have certainly given you no cause to think me anything but a woolly-crown! But I must hold you accountable for that,” she said, in a rallying tone. “I fancy you must have odd humours, perhaps! You make me feel one day that I have a pretty just notion of your character, and the next that I know nothing about you, which is very disconcerting, let me tell you!”
“I beg your pardon! And so?”
“And so I feel that Grandmama is right, when she says I ought to know you better before I make up this skimble-skamble mind of mine.” Her eyes were hidden from him; she was engaged in the occupation of twisting a ring round and round upon her finger; but she raised them suddenly, squarely meeting his. “Will you grant me a little more time for consideration? To become better acquainted—each of us with the other? I dare say you mean to go to Brighton now that London is getting to be so thin of company: that’s your custom, isn’t it?”