“We shall stay until Beatrice is quite fit to travel,” Mr. Sutton answered. “I might have to run over to th’ Five Towns for a day or two middle of next week, but I can come back immediately.”
“Well, I must go tomorrow,” Mynors sighed.
“Surely you can stay over Sunday, Henry?”
“No; I’ve no one to take my place at school.”
“And I must go tomorrow, too,” said Anna suddenly.
“Fiddle-de-dee, Anna!” the Alderman protested.
“I must,” she insisted. “Father will expect me. You know I came for a fortnight. Besides, there’s Agnes.”
“Agnes will be all right.”
“I must go.” They saw that she was fixed.
“Won’t a short walk do you good?” Mynors suggested to her, with singular gravity, after supper. “You’ve not been outside for two days.”
She looked inquiringly at Mrs. Sutton.
“Yes, take her, Henry; she’ll sleep better for it. Eh, Anna, but it’s a shame to send you home with those rings round your eyes.”
She went upstairs for a jacket. Beatrice was awake.
“Anna,” she exclaimed in a weak voice, without any preface, “I was awfully silly and cross the other afternoon, before all this business. Just now, when you came into the room, I was feeling quite ashamed.”
“Oh! Bee!” she answered, bending over her, “what nonsense! Now go off to sleep at once.” She was very happy. Beatrice, victim of a temperament which had the childishness and the impulsiveness of the artist without his higher and sterner traits, sank back in facile content.
The night was still and very dark. When Anna and Mynors got outside they could distinguish neither the sky nor the sea; but the faint, restless murmur of the sea came up the cliffs. Only the lights of the houses disclosed the direction of the road.
“Suppose we go down to the jetty, and then along as far as the breakwater?” he said, and she concurred. “Won’t you take my muffler—again?” he added, pulling this ever-present article from his pocket.
“No, thanks,” she said, almost coldly, “it’s really quite warm.” She regarded the offer of the muffler as an indiscretion—his sole indiscretion during their acquaintance. As they walked down the hill to the shore she though how Beatrice’s illness had sharply interrupted their relations. If she had come to the Isle of Man with a vague idea that he would possibly propose to her, the expectation was disappointed; but she felt no disappointment. She felt that events had lifted her to a higher plane than that of lovemaking. She was filled with the proud satisfaction of a duty accomplished. She did not seek to minimise to herself the fact that she had been of real value to her friends in the last few days, had probably saved Mrs. Sutton from illness, had certainly laid them all under an obligation. Their gratitude, unexpressed, but patent on each face, gave her infinite pleasure. She had won their respect by the manner in which she had risen to the height of an emergency that demanded more than devotion. She had proved, not merely to them but to herself, that she could be calm under stress, and could exert moral force when occasion needed. Such were the joyous and exultant reflections which passed through her brain—unnaturally active in the factitious wakefulness caused by excessive fatigue. She was in an extremely nervous and excitable condition—and never guessed it, fancying indeed that her emotions were exceptionally tranquil that night. She had not begun to realise the crisis through which she had just lived.
The uneven road to the ruined breakwater was quite deserted. Having reached the limit of the path, they stood side by side, solitary, silent, gazing at the black and gently heaving surface of the sea. The eye was foiled by the intense gloom; the ear could make nothing of the strange night-noises of the bay and the ocean beyond; but the imagination was stimulated by the appeal of all this mystery and darkness. Never had the water seemed so wonderful, terrible, and austere.
“We are going away tomorrow,” he said at length.
Anna started and shook with apprehension at the tremor in his voice. She had read that a woman was always well warned by her instincts when a man meant to propose to her. But here was the proposal imminent, and she had not suspected. In a flash of insight she perceived that the very event which had separated them for three days had also impelled the lover forward in his course. It was the thought of her vigils, her fortitude, her compassion, that had fanned the flame. She was not surprised, only made uncomfortable, when he took her hand.
“Anna,” he said, “it’s no use making a long story of it. I’m tremendously in love with you; you know I am.”
He stepped back, still holding her hand. She could say nothing.
“Well?” he ventured. “Didn’t you know?”
“I thought—I thought,” she murmured stupidly, “I thought you liked me.”
“I can’t tell you how I admire you. I’m not going to praise you to your face, but I simply never met anyone like you. From the very first moment I saw you, it was the same. It’s something in your face, Anna—Anna, will you be my wife?”
The actual question was put in a precise, polite, somewhat conventional tone. To Anna he was never more himself than at that moment.
She could not speak; she could not analyse her feelings; she could not even think. She was adrift. At last she stammered: “We’ve only known each other—”
“Oh, dear,” he exclaimed masterfully, “what does that matter? If it had been a dozen years instead of one, that would have made no difference.” She drew her hand timidly away, but he took it again. She felt that he dominated her and would decide for her. “Say yes.”
“Yes,” she said.
She saw pictures of her career as his wife, and resolved that one of the first acts of her freedom should be to release Agnes from the more ignominious of her father’s tyrannies.
They walked home almost in silence. She was engaged,
