“I want you,” he whispered.
Her tissues seemed to relax, as she recalled these very words on the lips of her mother, when they met in the big hall after news of Brian’s death. It was much to be wanted; more than she had reckoned it to be. To give, to go on giving, generously and selflessly, might be her true mission in life. Parsons preached that gospel from the pulpit, but till now she had never apprehended its significance and force. Yes—force. Was there, indeed, a driving power greater, immeasurably greater, than the human will, which informed all human action? Was marriage with Wilverley the appointed way out of her worries and perplexities? His strong arm stole round her waist; he pressed her to him. She recognised and admired his self-restraint. And something told her that he was really strong, able to bear her burdens whatever they might be. But—a cold douche of honesty made her shiver—she didn’t love him as surely he deserved to be loved. What had passed through his mind as he rode to this artless wooing invaded hers. She ought to be thrilling and yearning; she ought to be feeling that this was the greatest moment of her life. And it wasn’t. Bravely she confronted a fundamental fact.
“Arthur——”
“Yes, you sweet little woman?”
“You say you want me. How much?”
It is not easy for a man to be absolutely honest with a maid when his arm is round her waist, and he feels her yielding to his importunity.
“Tremendously,” he answered.
She remained silent. Encouraged by this, Wilverley pleaded his suit. He had always wanted her. She was exactly right. With happy inspiration he painted in vivid colours their future together. She could help him in his work; he could help her. They both loved the country. They would work and play together, a charming partnership. When he finished, she said nervously:
“Suppose—suppose that I didn’t quite care for you as you seem to care for me?”
“What do you mean, my dearest?”