“My aunt,” said Cornelia, demurely, “my aunt isn’t a mite disposed to acknowledge your responsibility. She thinks you’re ‘dashing’! She don’t approve of dashing young men. She warned me specially to avoid you.”
“Humph! dashing, am I? The word has an Early Victorian sound that suggests side-whiskers and leg-of-mutton trousers. I’m not at all sure that I’m flattered!” returned Guest, as he alternately stared out of the window, and busied himself in arranging the bags on the front seat of the cab.
There was an air of embarrassment in his manner this morning, and he talked against time, as if anxious not to let the conversation come to a pause. The afternoon on the river had been a delightful experience, abundantly proving the truth of his prophecy that it would be impossible to be bored in Cornelia’s society. She had looked very sweet in her softened mood, and as they drifted down the stream together, had prattled away in simple, confiding fashion, telling him the story of her life; of the ups and downs which she and her Poppar had known together; of her own individual adventures. He learnt that she was not engaged, and had never been in love, though there were always heaps of admirers “prancing” round. She intended to marry some day, however. Why, suttenly! Just as soon as ever the right man hove along. What was the good of being a woman, if you didn’t have your own home, and your own husband and children! Then she looked at him with her clear, golden eyes, and inquired how it was with himself. Was he in love?
“No!” answered Guest, but, even as he spoke, he knew in his heart that he lied. In the guise of a Yankee stranger, who embodied in herself all the traits which he most condemned, the one woman of his life had appeared. He loved—and the woman whom he loved was Cornelia Briskett!
After that, conversation languished. Guest was too much bewildered by the sudden realisation of his position to wish to talk, and Cornelia had developed a headache as a result of the morning’s emotion. She was glad to be quiet; to allow herself to be led about, and cared for, and told what she must do.
“Just like a ‘nice young girl’!” she said, laughingly as they parted in the lounge of the hotel. “If I lived over here long enough—there’s no telling—I might grow into a Moss Rose myself!”
“I wish you would! I wish you would! Won’t you try?” Guest cried eagerly. He, himself, did not know what he really meant by the inquiry, for the words had sprung to his lips almost without thought. He was as much startled by the sound of them as was Cornelia herself. He saw the dismay in her eyes, the dawning comprehension; he saw something else also—the first flicker of self-consciousness, the first tell-tale droop of the lids. She put him off with a light answer, and he went out to pace the streets until the night closed around him. ... What was this that had happened, and what was it going to mean? One week—a week to the day since he had first met this girl and conceived a violent dislike to her on the spot. Voice, accent, and manner had alike jarred on his nerves: she had appeared in every respect the opposite to the decorous, soft-voiced, highly-bred, if somewhat inane, damsel who represented his ideal of feminine charm. One week ago! What magic did she possess, this little red-haired, white-faced girl, to make such short work of the scruples of a lifetime? What was this mysterious feminine charm which blinded his senses to everything but just herself, and the dearness of her, and the longing to have her for his own? The jarring element had not disappeared, the difference of thought still existed, but for the moment he was oblivious of their existence. For the first time in his three-and-thirty years he was in love, and had room for no other thought.
The morning brought colder reflections. When—supposing he ever married, it would be wormwood and gall to see his wife condemned by his friends! He had looked forward to espousing the daughter of some irreproachable county family, and returning to his old home to live in frugal state for the rest of his life; driving to church in the old barouche, attending a succession of dull, country-house dinners; taking the chair at village meetings. He tried to imagine Cornelia spending long, peaceful years as the squire’s wife, contentedly pottering about the village, superintending Dorcas meetings, and finding recreation in occasional garden parties, where the same people met the same people, attired in the same frocks, and sat meekly in rows, drinking claret cup and sour lemonade, but the effort failed. Cornelia obstinately refused to fit into the niche. He could summon up a vision of her, indeed, but it was a disconcerting vision, in which she “pranced round,” while the neighbourhood turned its back, and pursed disapproving lips.
He was attracted by the girl—seriously attracted, but— It was a great big but, and he promised himself to be cautious, to think long and well before taking the plunge. All the same, it seemed imperative that he should return to Norton. His aunt was always delighted to put him up, and he could not be happy until he had satisfied himself that all was well with Cornelia once more. Incidentally also, he was interested to know what was happening at the Manor.
On the journey to Norton the presence of fellow-travellers kept the conversation necessarily impersonal, and at the station Cornelia dismissed her escort, refusing point blank to drive with him to the Park.