Kent Knowles: Quahaug

by Joseph Crosby Lincoln

It was not easy to state, that was plain. Ordinarily Herbert Bayliss was cool and self-possessed. I had never before seen him as embarrassed as he seemed to be now. He fidgeted on the edge of the chair, crossed and recrossed his legs, and, finally, offered the original remark that it had been an extremely pleasant day. I admitted the fact and again there was an interval of silence. I should have helped him, I suppose. It was quite apparent that his was no casual call and, under ordinary circumstances, I should have been interested and curious. Now I did not care. If he would say his say and go away and leave me I should be grateful.

And, at last, he said it. His next speech was very much nearer the point.

“Mr. Knowles,” he said, “I have called to—to see you concerning your niece, Miss Morley. I—I have come to ask your consent to my asking her to marry me.”

I was not greatly surprised. I had vaguely suspected his purpose when he entered the room. I had long foreseen the likelihood of some such interview as this, had considered what I should say when the time came. But now it had come, I could say nothing. I sat in silence, looking at him.

Perhaps he thought I did not understand. At any rate he hastened to explain.

“I wish your permission to marry your niece,” he repeated. “I have no doubt you are surprised. Perhaps you fancy I am a bit hasty. I suppose you do. But I—I care a great deal for her, Mr. Knowles. I will try to make her a good husband. Not that I am good enough for her, of course—no one could be that, you know; but I'll try and—and—”

He was very red in the face and floundered, amid his jerky sentences, like a newly-landed fish, but he stuck to it manfully. I could not help admiring the young fellow. He was so young and handsome and so honest and boyishly eager in his embarrassment. I admired him—yes, but I hated him, too, hated him for his youth and all that it meant, I was jealous—bitterly, wickedly jealous, and of all jealousy, hopeless, unreasonable jealousy is the worst, I imagine.

He went on to speak of his ambitions and prospects. He did not intend to remain always in Mayberry as his father's assistant, not he. He should remain for a time, of course, but then he intended to go back to London. There were opportunities there. A fellow with the right stuff in him could get on there. He had friends in the London hospitals and they had promised to put chances his way. He should not presume to marry Frances at once, of course. He would not be such a selfish goat as that. All he asked was that, my permission granted, she would be patient and wait a bit until he got on his feet, professionally he meant to say, and then—

I interrupted.

“One moment,” said I, trying to appear calm and succeeding remarkably well, considering the turmoil in my brain; “just a moment, Bayliss, if you please. Have you spoken to Miss Morley yet? Do you know her feelings toward you?”