Edna sat back in her chair, and looked straight at him with clear, wide eyes that seemed puzzled, trying to see beyond what was plainly in view. Marsten, burdened by the consciousness that he was not dealing honestly with her, yet afraid to awaken her too prematurely to the realities of the situation, was as confused as most single-minded persons are when placed in a false position from which there is no escape without risking disaster. For a moment there arose in his fast-beating heart an heroic determination to cast all caution to the winds, and cry out, “I love you, my girl, I love you; I am poor, and your father has forbidden me to see you;” but he feared a repulse from the girl, more fatal to his hopes than the check he had received from her father. He bent his gaze upon the ground and curbed his impatience. He realized that honesty had not been the best policy when he had inopportunely confessed his affection for the girl to her father, although he thought at the time he had taken a manly and straightforward course. Had he been less impulsive, and tried to win still farther the confidence of Sartwell, he might perhaps have ultimately gained a footing in his chief’s house, and then who knows what would have happened! He had drawn upon the bank of confidence, and his cheque had been dishonored: he could not risk a second mistake of that kind.
“I don’t like your word ‘managed,’” said Edna at last, a little wrinkle of displeasure on her fair brow. “Your visits here do not need to be managed. You can come as any other friend of my father comes, and we shall have plenty of opportunities for talk. You persist in thinking that my father has some feeling against you, when I assure you such is not the case.”
Before Marsten could answer, the silence was sharply broken by the emphatic click of the gate, and the young man was dumbfounded by seeing Sartwell enter, stride up the path leading to the house, stop, turn his head toward the spot where they sat, then cross the lawn directly to them. Marsten sprang to his feet; the girl arose more slowly, a roguish twinkle in her eye. Here was the solution of the problem right to her hand, at precisely the proper moment. The expression of the three faces would have interested a student in physiognomy. Anger, delight, confusion, were reflected from the countenances of Sartwell, Edna, and Marsten, respectively; but the elder man was the first to control his emotion, and, as he approached, his face became an impassive mask, revealing nothing of the passion within. He cast a brief quick glance at Marsten, who stood there pale, in the attitude of one who has been trapped, and who sees no avenue of escape. A longer, more searching look at his daughter showed him at once that she had nothing to conceal. Her evident undisguised pleasure at his coming was too palpable to be misunderstood. He drew a deep breath of relief, but recognized instinctively that the situation required very delicate handling if the girl’s ignorance was to be maintained. Here the fates fought on his side, for each man, from directly opposite motives, desired the same thing: neither wished to have a conflict in Edna’s presence; neither could run the risk of full knowledge coming to her at that time. Luckily Edna’s eyes were all for her father, and she gave no look to the young man, in whose face and attitude were undeniably stamped both guilt and discomfiture. She was the first to speak.
“Oh, father, I am so glad you came; we were just speaking of you.”
“Yes, Edna, there are one or two adages bearing on the subject: complimentary and the reverse.”
Edna laughed brightly.
“We have been trying to settle the strike, and Mr. Marsten thought you would be angry if you knew he had been here—thought you might call it interference. I told him that was all nonsense, but I could see he was not convinced; so you come at the proper moment to solve the problem finally.”
“I see I came just in time. I am only too glad to have assistance in unravelling this perplexing tangle, and I welcome help from any quarter.”
“There!” cried the girl triumphantly, turning to her lover, who had by this time partially recovered his composure. “Isn’t that just what I said?”
“Mr. Hope told me an hour ago, Marsten, that you had visited him yesterday, and had done me the honour to call at Wimbledon afterwards; so I came home, fearing I might miss a second visit. Mr. Hope spoke very highly of you, and I do not wish to be less cordial than he in expressing my own opinion of your most disinterested devotion to the welfare of your fellow-workmen.”