“Propose. That is what you are about to do, isn’t it?” She let him see that she felt a malicious enjoyment in his embarrassment.
Howard had been totally unprepared for her sally and he resented being made to look foolish; but, after the first hesitation, he decided to go on, according to his plan. Rosamond must marry; if she did not know that she must marry, he would soon convince her that a prolonged and colourful widowhood, with honour, could not be her portion in Roseborough. She must marry, and where could she find a more suitable husband than himself? (Like Judge Giffen and Mr. Albert Andrews, he also considered himself her inevitable choice.)
“Perhaps I ought hardly to go so far without more preparation; but—er—Rosamond, jealousy of your friendship with the musical newcomer to Roseborough has made me seem precipitate. But I have desired to say all this to you for a long time.”
He was young, magnetic, and of her own race, and suddenly her longing for comradeship went out to him.
“Oh, Wilton,” she almost pleaded, “I don’t want to marry you. I won’t say that I never mean to marry, because some one might come. Yet, if he were interesting enough to love, why would he ever come to Roseborough? No, I couldn’t love Dr. Frei. But I wish I could marry the song of his fiddle and be blown off on the wind with my bridegroom a thousand leagues from here.”
“My dear girl, have you not lived happily here, where you are beloved by all?”
She made a wry face.
“Can’t even you understand me a little? You’re young.”
“I wish to understand you, above everything.”
“Can’t you guess what it’s been like, underneath the—the—velvet surface? When I was a poor young girl in Poplars Vale I longed for a finished education and a high station. Hibbert Mearely was fifty-three when my ingenuous countenance met his collector’s eye. He put me here—as a living ornament—among his paintings and his books and antiques where everything is old and stable and has a set value. Look at the chairs; when you sit down, you feel you are settled there for life—and will not move again till some one carries you to the churchyard. I came here so proudly—to be the wife of such a fine, distinguished gentleman. I thought it would be a wonderful life—with all this,” she waved her hands to indicate the furnishings of Mr. Mearely’s museum. “But it wasn’t. It was dreadful. In its heart, Roseborough still regards me as an alien and an upstart. My mother once sold butter. They remember that. They are waiting for a chance to rub it in. Now that my crape is two years behind me, the three or four bachelors and the five widowers are eager to pounce on me with marriage. And all the women are ready to destroy me with gossip.”