“I have mamma——” she was beginning, when he stopped her by laying his hand lightly upon her own, which held the reins on her horse’s neck.
“Wait a moment, please, Miss Cranstoun. I don’t want you to speak until you have heard me out. I love you, and I want you to be my wife. Don’t start and draw back. There is nothing after all so very wonderful in such a statement. I knew when I first saw you last night that I should ask you to marry me, and since that moment I have only been waiting for the terms to come to me. I am not in the least attractive, I know. But there’s this to be in my favor, that I am too plain to be conceited, or to have my head turned by women’s flatteries. You are not happy here, and you lead a caged-bird sort of life. As my wife, you would be free as air, and your will would be law. Of course I don’t expect you to love me—not for a long time yet. But in time,” he added, wistfully, “in time, as you realize that you are everything in the world to me, I think you will grow to like me a little. You see, we are such good friends, and I should understand you, and that is something to begin with, is it not? And we would travel all over Europe—all over the world, if you like. Of course,” he went on in some confusion, noting her look of surprise, “it is not as though I were very rich. But I have some money saved, quite enough to enable me to give my bride a long and delightful wedding tour by sea and land before starting for my Canadian farm. Don’t answer me directly—don’t say anything at all just now. Think it over, and let me know. I will speak to Lady Cranstoun when we get back, and you can consult with her.”
“But, Mr. Pritchard,” she said, turning her great, startled eyes upon him, “do you think for a moment my father would consent? He would be furiously angry, and horribly insulting at the mere idea. Don’t, pray don’t speak of this any more. Let us forget all about it, and go on being merely friends.”
“That is impossible,” he answered, gently. “Tell me truthfully, Miss Cranstoun, is your objection to a marriage with me based solely upon the fear of your father’s disapproval?”
“Yes—no—that is—I don’t want to marry you, Mr. Pritchard! I have never thought of such a thing!”
The words burst from her lips, and a bewildered, troubled look clouded her fair face.
“Well, I will give you time to think of it,” he said, quietly. “As to Sir Philip’s objections, I have little doubt that I can overcome them.”
“You don’t know my father,” she said, with meaning. “Sometimes I wonder why he hates me us he does. But I am certain of one thing: he would far rather see me dead than married to any one who is not my superior in rank and fortune.”
“Still I don’t fear his opposition,” returned Lord Carthew, with a smile. “I am better off than you know, and may possibly even succeed to a title some day.”
“Had you told me that at first,” she said reproachfully, “we should not have been such friends.”