“I wanted to tell you the news myself, because I knew you would be interested. Sit down, Merle, in your usual place, and guess what has happened.”
I did not need to guess; the first look at Gay’s happy face had told me, and then I had glanced at a certain finger. Opals tell their own tales.
“Guess,” continued my mistress, mischievously. “Who was the guest who came oftenest to Marshlands?”
“There were two who came most frequently,” I returned, looking steadily into Gay’s blushing face, “Mr. Hawtry and Mr. Rossiter, but I do not need to be told it is Mr. Rossiter.” And Gay jumped up and kissed me in her impulsive way.
I could see that she was pleased I had guessed it.
“I told you it would be no news to her, Vi,” she said, breathlessly. “Do you remember our talk in the orchard, Merle, when I told you I was afraid of poverty?”
“Yes, but I knew you magnified your fears, Miss Gay.” But she shook her head at that.
“I hate it just as much as ever. I tell Walter I am the worst possible person for a poor man’s wife, and if you ask Violet she will agree with me, but I was obliged to have him, poverty and all; he would not take ‘No’ for an answer.”
“I think Walter was very sensible,” returned her sister. “I should have despised him for giving it up.”
“He would never have done that,” replied Gay, with decision, “until I had married somebody else, and there was no chance of that. You are grave, Merle; do you mean to forbid the banns? Why do you not congratulate me?”