Mr. Warde's speech had broken in upon a dreamy wonder, which was making a song of joy in her heart, as to the meaning of Mr. Pelham's lingering look as he had said good-bye. With a start of recollection, and a pulling of herself together, Marjorie remembered that she had known this man, on whose looks she was dwelling, just six weeks. Six weeks! And this other man, sitting so near, with an air of possession at which her whole heart rebelled—though she quelled the expression she was longing to give way to—she had known all her life! All her life he had been intimate—one of them—as near almost as her father. And how good he had been to her, to them all! How the household would miss the constant care—first for one, then for another—which in so many ways he had evinced. Marjorie's conscience smote her when she recalled his many kindnesses, accepted as a matter of course, as between lifelong friends; kindnesses, as she quickly remembered, entirely on one side.
The recollection of her mother's pleading for him drew Marjorie's eyes in mute questioning to his face. Would he feel very much if she could not bring herself to care for him? He looked so comfortable, and healthy, and prosperous. Surely it could not matter to him what a girl might do? And then—he turned, and looked at her suddenly, to meet the questioning in her eyes. A queer, rigid expression hardened his mouth. For a moment he waited, as though preparing for a blow. Then he stood up and looked down at her, shielding her by his action from any lookers-on from the windows.
"Well, Marjorie, you have something to say to me?" and she heard him catch his breath, and pause to recover, before he added: "Say it quickly, dear. Have you changed? Have you reconsidered?"
"Mother——" stammered Marjorie, taken by surprise; "no, I haven't changed, but——"
"Yes," he encouraged; and he vaguely wondered that she was not stunned by the loud beating of his heart. It had come at last, what he longed for. It overmastered him.
"Mother said—it is love." Her head was bent, and her voice was a whisper, scarcely audible in the soft summer air; but the man heard.
"And you—and you?" he breathed.
Marjorie lifted her eyes, startled. This—what was it?—this transforming emotion, shining in the eyes, usually so quiet? She shrank back.
"No, do not," she implored. "I do not know—I do not feel like that."
She made as though to rise, and pushed him gently away. What had she said? What had she done to cause such feeling?