He proved the depth of his contrition by a sudden descent into autobiography. His early life was unfolded before her, his struggles, his defeats, his slow ascent of fortune’s ladder. She could not help admiring this large simplicity, she could not help honoring him for it, but when she perceived that it was leading all-too-surely to what she feared, but by another road, she was overcome. She began to steel herself to bear the blow she had more than half invited.
Don’t let me see you or hear from you again until he has proposed to you. Those grim words, brutal and incredible, came upon her ears for the hundredth time. Was she weakly to yield to such cynicism! If a spark of human decency remained to her, she must avert while there was yet time that which too clearly was going to happen.
Spurred to action by a cruel desperation, she rose abruptly. But that did not serve. Lightly, but firmly, Lord Duckingfield grabbed her by the wrist and propelled her with half whimsical precision back to her chair. The deed was accomplished with a kind of humorous deftness, but the “insight” of Miss Cass might have told her, had she been able just then to bring it into play, that the seeming archness of her suitor was a mere mask. Really he was possessed by a most becoming nervousness and this a lady of her powers ought to have divined. Perhaps she did divine it. Underneath Lord Duckingfield’s humor was a fitting sense of presumptuous audacity. He, at least, in spite of his democratic sense, could not forget who she was. What more likely than that being a thoroughly clumsy fellow he had already gone too far.
“Lady Elfreda.” His voice—his deep voice—sounded rather hoarse. “I want you to help me if you can. I’m in love with you, as I never thought I could be in love with any girl. You are just my sort. I think we understand one another. I am sure I can make you happy. Will you marry me?”
The moment had come. She had but herself to blame. Hers the sole fault that the thing had happened. The blunt words of one whom she was quite sure was a good and simple man fell upon her like a douche. They were like a douche of ice-cool reason. In that instant she saw that this wicked madness must cease. No matter what the cost she must forget her miserable self. Such a horrid farce could not go on.
She felt his honest grip upon her fingers. The pause that followed became more than she could bear. If ever she was to respect herself again, here and now she must make an end. Desperately she assembled the fugitive fragments of her will, but the very stars in their courses were against her now. One phrase, one unforgettable phrase he had used was running like quicksilver in her brain. “You are such a very nice little girl that even had you been just plain Miss Brown...!”
Fatal corollary! She was “just plain Miss Brown” had he but known it. Therefore, as his own words proved, where could be the purpose of his knowing it? The argument was too sweetly specious! Torn as she was, she had not the strength to fight it. Half-heartedly she strove to overcome the spell of those fatal words, but she knew only too well that the task was hopeless.
“Think it over, my dear.” He was no longer nervous; he was calm, precise, matter of fact. “I’m not so young as I might be, but anything that money can buy I am in a position to give you. No need for an answer just now. I see you want time to think it over—it’s only proper and natural. But to-morrow I hope you’ll be able to tell me that I may write to your father.”
Again, with an increasing horror, Girlie felt the kiss of an honest man upon her shrinking finger tips.