“Ah! a dear friend, Canon. No one is to me the same as you. I shan’t mind at all if you scold me.”
She looked at him so guilelessly, so trustingly, that his heart melted over her. Verily she was the wife sent to him by heaven.
“I was but jesting, Yvonne. Besides, how could I dare scold you? It is I who come as a suppliant to you, my dear. I love you, and it is the dearest wish of my heart to make you my wife.”
The sun died out of Yvonne’s eyes, her heart stopped beating, she looked at him in piteous amazement.
“You—want me—?”
“Yes. Is it so strange?”
“You are jesting still—I don’t understand—” She had withdrawn her hand from his clasp, and was sitting upright, twisting her handkerchief and trembling all over. It was so unexpected. She could scarcely trust her senses. She had regarded him more as an influence than as a man. To Geraldine’s wit she had given not a moment’s thought. To marry Canon Chisely—the idea seemed unreal, preposterous. And yet she heard his voice pleading. She was overwhelmed by the sudden magnitude of responsibility. He had swooped down and caught her up through the vast moral spaces that lay between them, and she was dizzy and breathless.
“I do not press you for your answer,” she heard him saying. “To-morrow—a week, a month hence—what you will. Take your time. I can give you a good name, comfort in worldly things—the ease and freedom from care which, thank God, my means allow—an honourable position, and a deep, true affection. Would you like me to wait a month before I speak to you again?”
“A month could make no difference,” murmured Yvonne. “It would seem as strange then as now.” There was a sudden pause in the whirl of her thoughts. Was it a bewildering device of his to show her kindness, provide for her future?
“I could n’t accept it from you,” she added incoherently.