Lane Protheroe bowed again with the same gay flourish, and recovering himself from the bow with an upward swing of the head, followed the women-folk into the wide kitchen as if he had been crossing the floor in a minuet. If these airs of his had been assumed they would have touched the ridiculous, but they were altogether natural to him; and what with them and his smiling, changeful, sympathetic ways, he was a prime favourite, and seemed to carry sunshine into all sorts of company.
When the mother had left the kitchen the girl seated herself considerably apart from the visitor, and taking up a book from a dresser beside her, began to turn over its pages, stopping now and again to read a line or two, and rather ostentatiously disregarding her companion. He sat in silence, regarding her with a grave face for a minute or thereabouts, and then, rising, crossed the room and placed himself beside her, bending over her, with one hand resting on the dresser. She did not look up in answer to this movement, but bent her head even a little more than before above the book.
‘I’m glad to be left alone with you for a minute, Miss Fellowes,’ he began gently, and with a faint tremor and hesitation in his voice, ‘because I’ve something very special and particular to say to you.’
There he paused, and Bertha with a slight cough, which was a trifle too casual and unembarrassed to be real, said, ‘Indeed, Mr. Protheroe?’ and kept her eyes upon the book.
‘They say a girl always knows,’ he went on, ‘and if that’s true you know already what I want to say.’
He paused, but if he expected any help from her in the way either of assent or denial, he was disappointed. He stooped a little lower and touched her hand with a gentle timidity, but she at once withdrew it.
‘You know I love you, Bertha? You know you’re dearer to me than all the whole wide world beside?’
Still Bertha said nothing, but the hand that turned the leaves of the book trembled perceptibly.
‘I’ve come to ask you if you’ll be my wife, dear! if you’ll let me make you my lifelong care and joy, my darling! You don’t guess how much I love you. You don’t know how much your answer means to me.’
The girl rose, and, carrying the book with her, walked to the kitchen window and looked out upon the garden, the river, and the fields, without seeing anything. She was evidently agitated, and did not find an answer easily. Lane followed her, and when for a moment she dared to look up at him she encountered a look so tender, anxious, and ardent that she lowered her eyes in quick confusion. He seized her hand, and for a brief instant she let it rest in his.