“It is something else, though, Edith. I’ll tell you what, it is my rather spotted past that is burning up there, turning into clean white ash and wholesome-smelling smoke, like an offering on an altar.”
“Heavens! Dick, you are growing poetical. What can be the matter with you?”
“Disease of the heart, I think. Edith, do you want to remain a widow always?”
“How can I tell?” she answered uneasily. “I haven’t been one long—yet.”
“No, but life is short and one must look forward; also, the circumstances are unusual. Edith dear, I want you to say that after the usual decent interval you will marry—me. No, don’t answer yet, let me have my innings first, even if you bowl me out afterwards. Edith, you know that I have always been in love with you from a boy. All the queer things I did, or most of them, were really because of you. You drove me wild, drawing me on and pushing me off, and I went croppers to make myself forget. You remember our quarrel this day year. I behaved badly, and I am very sorry; but the fact is I was quite mad with jealousy. I don’t mind owning it now the poor fellow is gone. Well, since I knew that, I have been doing my very best to mend. I have worked like a horse down in that beastly House, which I hate, and learned up all sorts of things that I don’t want to know anything about. Also, I have got these directorships, thanks to Devene, whose money was supposed to be behind me, and they are practically for life. So I have about £1,500 a year to begin with, and you will have nearly as much. That isn’t exactly riches, but put together, it is enough for a start.”
“No,” said Edith, “it isn’t riches, but two people might manage on it if they were economical.”
“Well,” he went on quietly, “the question is whether you will consent to try in due course?” and he bent forward and looked at her with his fine black eyes.
“I don’t know,” she answered doubtfully. “Dick, I am sorry, but I can’t quite trust you, and if marriage is to be successful, it must be built on other things than love and raptures; that is why I accepted poor Rupert.”
“Why don’t you trust me?” he asked.
“Dick, is it true that you arranged this mission of Rupert’s in the hope that what has happened—might happen?”