“Well, you’ve a right to say what you will, and I’ll not tell you what’s shaken me; but, Cicely, little or much, I’m here to offer you all you ask.”
“Then all I ask, Arthur, is that you leave me. What use am I in this house if I begin to think? You’ve brought me another of ’em, too; then keep away from me, lest I break down. I’ll do the best I can.”
Sad and broken-spirited, he gazed down at the cradle.
“Yes, I’ll go,” he said. “But I’d hoped you’d see in me a man you haven’t known yet, humbled, ay, and even his body in danger. I’m no king of Back o’ th’ Mooin now; when I’ve done what I’m going to do both sides will hunt me. I’d hoped, too, we might help one another, you and I.”
She began to tremble. “What is it, Arthur?” she asked quickly.
“Don’t ask me, except that this is my finish with it. I’ll tell you what it is I offer you now. All’s closing in, and they won’t stop at this; and I offer you danger for a portion, and not so much as a roof to your head it may be, and it may be, Cicely, just the same lot as hers stretched on the bed yonder. But a new man goes with it, Cis——”
“Arthur!” she cried, sharply, as if transfixed with a sudden pain; and for the first time since he had entered he looked up at her face. Her eyes were bright with a starting of tears, and her lips were parted and drawn downwards. He did not raise his hands, but in a moment her head was on his breast.
There was a murmuring in the market-place; the crowd was returning.
She was sobbing and speaking against the cloth of his coat, and his head was bowed to catch her words.
“Oh, all the time I’ve longed for it—all my life—but I didn’t think to get it like this!” she was murmuring brokenly. “Oh, among harsh and grudging folk I ha’ thought o’ gentle and bonnie things, and soft and that! And I’d thought never to know ’em now, after I’d said ‘Yes’ to you, Arthur. And you’ve right done wi’ it, love?”