“I have been so lonely, with no company but the rain,” he said, pushing the chair a little towards her, and bidding her sit near the fire, where she could dry her feet.
Katy obeyed, and sat down so near to him that had he chosen he might have touched the golden hair, fastened in heavy coils low on her neck, and giving to her a very girlish appearance, as Morris thought, for he could see her now, and while she dried her feet he looked at her eagerly, wondering that the fierce storm she had encountered had left so few traces upon her face. Just about the mouth there was a deep cut line, but this was all; the remainder of the face was fair and smooth as in her early girlhood, and far more beautiful, just as her character was lovelier, and more to be admired.
Morris had done well to wait if he could win her now. Perhaps he thought so, too, and this was why his spirits became so gay as he kept talking to her, suggesting at last that she should stay to tea. The rain was falling in torrents when he made the proposition. She could not go then, even had she wished it, and though it was earlier than his usual time, Morris at once rang for Mrs. Hull, and ordered that tea be served as soon as possible.
“I ought not to stay. It is not proper,” Katy kept thinking, as she fidgeted in her chair, and watched the girl setting the table for two, and occasionally deferring some debatable point to her as if she were mistress there.
“You can go now, Reekie,” Morris said, when the boiling water was poured into the silver kettle, and tea was on the table. “If we need you we will ring.”
With a vague wonder as to who would toast the doctor’s bread, and butter it, Reekie departed, and the two were left together. It was Katy who toasted the bread, kneeling upon the hearth, burning her face and scorching the bread in her nervousness at the novel position in which she so unexpectedly found herself. It was Katy, too, who prepared Morris’s tea, and tried to eat, but could not. She was not hungry, she said, and the custard was the only thing she tasted, besides the tea, which she sipped at frequent intervals so as to make Morris think she was eating more than she was. But Morris was not deceived, nor disheartened. Possibly she suspected his intention, and if so, the sooner he reached the point the better. So when the tea equipage was put away, and she began again to speak of going home, he said,
“No, Katy, you can’t go yet, till I have said what’s in my mind to say,” and laying his hand upon her shoulder he made her sit down beside him and listen while he told her of the love he had borne for her long before she knew the meaning of that word as she knew it now—of the struggle to keep that love in bounds after its indulgence was a sin; of his temptations and victories, of his sincere regret for Wilford, and of his deep respect for her grief, which made her for a time as a sister to him. But that time had passed. She was not his sister now, nor ever could be again. She was Katy, dearer, more precious, more desired even than before another called her wife, and he asked her to be his, to come up there to Linwood and live with him, making the rainy days brighter, balmier, than the sunniest had ever been, and helping him in his work of caring for the poor and sick around them.
“Will Katy come? Will she be the wife of Cousin Morris?”
There was a world of pathos and pleading in the voice which asked this question, just as there was a world of tenderness in the manner with which Morris caressed and fondled the bowed head resting on the chair arm. And Katy felt it all, understanding what it was to be offered such a love as Morris offered, but only comprehending in part what it would be to refuse that love. For her blinded judgment said she must refuse it. Had there been no sad memories springing from that grave in Greenwood, no bitter reminiscences connected with her married life—had Wilford never heard of Morris’s love and taunted her with it, she might perhaps consent, for she craved the rest there would be with Morris to lean upon. But the happiness was too great for her to accept. It would seem too much like faithlessness to Wilford, too much as if he had been right, when he charged her with preferring Morris to himself.
“It cannot be;—oh, Morris, it cannot be,” she sobbed, when he pressed her for an answer. “Don’t ask me why—don’t ever mention it again, for I tell you it cannot be. My answer is final; it cannot be. I am sorry for you, so sorry! I wish you had never loved me, for it cannot be.”