“What is it all to come to, then?”
“I mean to get papa’s consent. That is what it is to come to.”
“And if he is obstinate?”
“I shall coax him round at last. When the time for going comes, he’ll yield then.”
“But you will not go with them?” As he asked this he came to her and tried again to take her by the waist; but she retreated from him, and got herself clear from his arm. “If you are afraid of me, I shall know that you think it possible that we may be parted.”
“I am not a bit afraid of you, Hugh.”
“Nora, I think you ought to tell me something definitely.”
“I think I have been definite enough, sir. You may be sure of this, however;—I will not go back to the Islands.”
“Give me your hand on that.”
“There is my hand. But, remember;—I had told you just as much before. I don’t mean to go back. I mean to stay here. I mean;—but I do not think I will tell you all the things I mean to do.”
“You mean to be my wife?”
“Certainly;—some day, when the difficulty about the chairs and tables can settle itself. The real question now is—what am I to do with myself when papa and mamma are gone?”
“Become Mrs. H. Stanbury at once. Chairs and tables! You shall have chairs and tables as many as you want. You won’t be too proud to live in lodgings for a few months?”
“There must be preliminaries, Hugh—even for lodgings, though they may be very slender. Papa goes in less than three weeks now, and mamma has got something else to think of than my marriage garments. And then there are all manner of difficulties, money difficulties and others, out of which I don’t see my way yet.” Hugh began to asseverate that it was his business to help her through all money difficulties as well as others; but she soon stopped his eloquence. “It will be by-and-by, Hugh, and I hope you’ll support the burden like a man; but just at present there is a hitch. I shouldn’t have come over at all;—I should have stayed with Emily in Italy, had I not thought that I was bound to see you.”
“My own darling!”
“When papa goes, I think that I had better go back to her.”
“I’ll take you!” said Hugh, picturing to himself all the pleasures of such a tour together over the Alps.
“No you won’t, because that would be improper. When we travel together we must go Darby and Joan fashion, as man and wife. I think I had better go back to Emily, because her position there is so terrible. There must come some end to it, I suppose soon. He will be better, or he will become so bad that—that medical interference will be unavoidable. But I do not like that she should be alone. She gave me a home when she had one;—and I must always remember that I met you there.” After this there was of course another attempt with Hugh’s right arm, which on this occasion was not altogether unsuccessful. And then she told him of her friendship for Mr. Glascock’s wife, and of her intention at some future time to visit them at Monkhams.
“And see all the glories that might have been your own,” he said.
“And think of the young man who has robbed me of them all! And you are to go there too, so that you may see what you have done. There was a time, Hugh, when I was very nearly pleasing all my friends and showing myself to be a young lady of high taste and noble fortune—and an obedient, good girl.”
“And why didn’t you?”
“I thought I would wait just a little longer. Because—because—because—. Oh, Hugh, how cross you were to me afterwards when you came down to Nuncombe and would hardly speak to me!”
“And why didn’t I speak to you?”
“I don’t know. Because you were cross, and surly, and thinking of nothing but your tobacco, I believe. Do you remember how we walked to Niddon, and you hadn’t a word for anybody?”
“I remember I wanted you to go down to the river with me, and you wouldn’t go.”
“You asked me only once, and I did so long to go with you. Do you remember the rocks in the river? I remember the place as though I saw it now; and how I longed to jump from one stone to another. Hugh, if we are ever married, you must take me there, and let me jump on those stones.”
“You pretended that you could not think of wetting your feet.”
“Of course I pretended—because you were so cross, and so cold. Oh, dear! I wonder whether you will ever know it all.”
“Don’t I know it all now?”
“I suppose you do, nearly. There is mighty little of a secret in it, and it is the same thing that is going on always. Only it seems so strange to me that I should ever have loved anyone so dearly—and that for next to no reason at all. You never made yourself very charming that I know of;—did you?”
“I did my best. It wasn’t much, I dare say.”
“You did nothing, sir—except just let me fall in love with you. And you were not quite sure that you would let me do that.”
“Nora, I don’t think you do understand.”
“I do;—perfectly. Why were you cross with me, instead of saying one nice word when you were down at Nuncombe? I do understand.”
“Why was it?”
“Because you did not think well enough of me to believe that I would give myself to a man who had no fortune of his own. I know it now, and I knew it then; and therefore I wouldn’t dabble in the river with you. But it’s all over now, and we’ll go and get wet together like dear little children, and Priscilla shall scold us
