“And you think it will be no surprise to her?”
“Well, sir,” modestly, “I think it will not.”
“More ways of killing a cat than drowning it, eh? That’s it, is it? Haven’t spoken, but let her know? And you want my leave?”
“Yes, sir, to ask her to be my wife,” Arthur said frankly. “It has been my wish for some time, but I have hesitated. Of course, I am no great match for her, but I am of her blood, and——”
He paused. He did not know what to add, and the Squire did not help him, and for the first time Arthur felt a pang of uneasiness. This was not lessened when the old man asked, “How long has this been going on, eh?”
“Oh, for a long time, sir—on my side,” Arthur answered. There was an ominous silence. The Squire might be taking it well or ill—it was impossible to judge. He had not changed his attitude and still sat, leaning forward, his hands on his stick, impenetrable behind his bandages. It struck Arthur that he might have been premature; that he might have put his favor to too high a test. It might have been wiser to work upon Josina, and wait and see how things turned out.
At last. “She’ll not go out of this house,” the Squire said. And he sighed in a way unusual with him, even when he had been at his worst. “That’s understood. There’s room for you here, and any brats you may have. That’s understood, eh?” sharply.
“Willingly, sir,” Arthur answered. A great weight had been lifted from him.
“And you’ll take her name, do you hear?”
“Of course, sir. I shall be proud to do so.”