She stood absently looking down at shaggy General sleeping peacefully on the hearth-rug. Richards watched her a minute, and then, stepping forward, said softly, “Please sit down, Miss Howland, and then you can tell me as much as you wish.”
A grateful look flashed into her face, as she took the big chair he offered her, and sank into it a little wearily. Leaning back, she scrutinized the well-cut, thoughtful face of the man. He had taken his place beside the dog again, and as he sat staring at the coals in the flickering firelight he seemed even handsomer than ever.
She looked at him a moment, and, without moving, said: “Mr. Richards, I’ve come here to-night on a queer mission. I wish advice. I wish to tell you something about myself, and then I want you to advise me as to what you think I ought to do. I have come to you under circumstances peculiar, to say the least, for these reasons: First, because what I have seen of you has led me to think you honest, frank, and sincere; second, because your friends assure me I am right. This has led me to believe you will be willing to overlook what might be construed as unwomanly, and, in addition, will be willing to help me in trouble. Am I right?” she hesitatingly asked.
“Yes, Miss Howland, you are,” he replied; “people who know anything about you could not misinterpret your actions. Don’t think circumstances affect me; but just tell me plainly what I can do for you.”
“I thought you would take it so,” she said in a tone of relief. “And now I’ll tell you what I wish to, and pray don’t regard it as a girl’s whim,—as a peculiar girl’s whim,—but simply try to assume the role of a willing listener and an impartial adviser. You see,” she continued, “I have no one to go to. I am alone in the world. My parents are both dead, and I live with an elderly aunt, who is as good to me as any one could be, but with whom I have absolutely nothing in common.”
The girl smiled thoughtfully. “She likes her tea and cat, her Goldsmith and Thackeray, early hours, and to be left alone. I am different. She is sixty-eight, and that’s the reason, I presume. Besides, she was never married. And now, Mr. Richards, I have come to the place where I hardly know what to say. It’s about my marrying. A funny thing to consult you about, isn’t it? You see, ever since I was a child it has been taken for granted that when I grew up I should marry a certain individual. My parents both seemed to consider it a settled matter, my aunt the same; and I suppose, as a child, I followed the general example. That man was Bob Cutting. We played together as children, living in adjacent houses, and virtually grew up together. I remember we used to have mock marriage ceremonies, at which he and I always figured as the principals, with some other youngster as the clergyman, and we always looked forward to the time when as ‘grown ups’ our marriage might be made ‘real.’ So matters drifted along. The children’s play stopped a good many years ago; but Bob has kept coming to see me just the same.
“And now—well, he wishes to carry out in earnest what was begun in play. A few nights ago he asked me to be his wife.”
The girl leaned forward, and absently smoothed the General’s head, as he lay there watching the coals. Presently she said:—
“Mr. Richards, then, and not till then, did I find I did not love him. But,” she added, “I did not tell him so. I said only: ‘We’ve been friends since we were children. Come to me next Sunday night, and I will give you my answer.’”