"I have something rather odd to say to you. As we are both rational persons, I shall talk quite freely, and explain to you exactly the position in which I find myself. It's a queer position, to say the least. When I was at Rivenoak, on the last day of my visit, Lady Ogram had a confidential talk with me; your name came prominently into it, and I went away with certain vague impressions which have kept me, ever since, in a good deal of uneasiness. This afternoon, I have had another private conversation with Lady Ogram. Again your name had a prominent part in it, and this time there was no vagueness whatever in the communication made to me. I was bidden, in plain terms, to make you an offer of marriage."
Constance drooped her eyes, but gave no other sign of disturbance.
"Now," resumed Dyce, leaning forward with hands clasped between his knees, "before I say anything more about this matter as it concerns you, I had better tell you what I think about our friend. I feel pretty sure that she has a very short time to live; it wouldn't surprise me if it were a question of days, but in any case I am convinced she won't live for a month. What is your opinion?"
"I fancy you are right," answered the other, gravely.
"If so, this rather grotesque situation becomes more manageable. It is fortunate that you and I know each other so well, and have the habit of straightforward speech. I may assume, no doubt, that, from the very first, our friendship was misinterpreted by Lady Ogram; reasonable relations between man and woman are so very rare, and, in this case, the observer was no very acute psychologist. I feel sure she is actuated by the kindest motives; but what seems to her my inexplicable delay has been too much for her temper, and at last there was nothing for it but to deal roundly with me. One may suspect, too, that she feels she has not much time to spare. Having made up her mind that we are to marry, she wants to see the thing settled. Looking at it philosophically, I suppose one may admit that her views and her behaviour are intelligible. Meanwhile, you and I find ourselves in a very awkward position. We must talk it over—don't you think?—quite simply, and decide what is best to do."
Constance listened, her eyes conning the carpet. There was silence for a minute, then she spoke.
"What did Lady Ogram tell you about me?"
"She repeated in vague terms something she had already said at Rivenoak. It seems that you are to undertake some great responsibility—to receive some proof of her confidence which will affect all the rest of your life. More than that I don't know, but I understand that there has been a conversation between you, in which everything was fully explained."
Constance nodded. After a moment's reflection she raised her eyes to Lashmar's, and intently regarded him; her expression was one of anxiety severely controlled.
"You shall know what that responsibility is," she said, with a just perceptible tremor in her voice. "Lady Ogram, like a good many other people nowadays, has more money than she knows what to do with. For many years, I think, she has been troubled by a feeling that a woman rich as she ought to make some extraordinary use of her riches—ought to set an example, in short, to the wealthy world. But she never could discover the best way of doing this. She has an independent mind, and likes to strike out ways for herself. Ordinary Charities didn't satisfy her; to tell the truth, she wanted not only to do substantial good, but to do it in a way which should perpetuate her name—cause her to be more talked about after her death than she has been in her lifetime. Time went on, and she still could hit upon nothing brilliant; all she had decided was to build and endow a great hospital at Hollingford, to be called by her name, and this, for several reasons, she kept postponing. Then came her acquaintance with me—you know the story. She was troubling about the decay of the village, and trying to hit on remedies. Well, I had the good luck to suggest the paper-mill, and it was a success, and Lady Ogram at once had a great opinion of me. From that day—she tells me—the thought grew in her mind that, instead of devoting all her wealth, by will, to definite purposes, she would leave a certain portion of it to me, to be used by me for purposes of public good. I, in short"—Constance smiled nervously—"was to be sole and uncontrolled trustee of a great fund, which would be used, after her death, just as it might have been had she gone on living. The idea is rather fine, it seems to me; it could only have originated in a mind capable of very generous thought, generous in every sense of the word. It implied remarkable confidence, such as few people, especially few women, are capable of. It strikes me as rather pathetic, too—the feeling that she would continue to live in another being, not a mere inheritor of her money, but a true representative of her mind, thinking and acting as she would do, always consulting her memory, desiring her approval. Do you see what I mean?"