“I don’t know,” he said shortly—“I don’t know. This is a new experience to me. I can only say one thing”—his voice softened, swelled into deep, low notes—“she is my life. She means everything—the beginning and the end. I shall fight on and on until she is mine.”
Miss Harding coughed, and twitched at her shawl, and blinked at the ceiling, and feebly shook her grey head.
“It is a pity,” she said weakly, “to make too sure! In these matters force is—er—is out of place. Evelyn must decide. She should not be coerced. If I know her nature, coercion will do no good. She is inclined to obstinacy.”
“Coercion would fail, but love—Your niece is very feminine. She would be unhappy alone. She needs to be loved. I have love to give her—enough to satisfy any girl—more than enough! At the bottom of her heart she knows it. She ran away because she was afraid. Left no address.”
“Mr Maplestone, I am sorry to appear unkind, but Miss Wastneys’ plans were made before she guessed your wishes.”
That was true, and hit him hard. His face fell, and he looked so quelled, so dejected, that my heart ached with remorse. What foolish thing I might have said I don’t know, but at that moment the door burst open, and Winifred and Marion precipitated themselves into my arms. Taking no notice of the strange man, they proceeded to confide the adventures of their walk. It was “Miss Harding, this; darling Miss Harding, that; Miss Harding, dear, the other,” while I undid their mufflers, and smoothed their hair, and smiled in benevolent interest. What could be a finer testimony to Miss Harding’s verisimilitude than the blandishments of these sweet innocents?
For some minutes Mr Maplestone’s presence was ignored, but when I looked at him again it was to realise with surprised curiosity that his bearing had undergone a startling change. His cheeks had flushed, the weary lines had disappeared, he looked young, brisk, assured. Nothing had happened to account for it; nothing had been said, bearing in the remotest sense on his affairs. I had made no slip of any kind, but had been laboriously elderly and restrained, and yet, there it was—an unmistakable air of satisfaction and relief.
He rose, held out his hand.
“I see you are busy. I won’t detain you longer. If you will allow me I will call again.”
“Mr Maplestone, excuse my want of hospitality, but it is quite useless.”