“You are my affianced wife,” said the Canon, with grave promptness.
“That’s what I can’t realise. Everything seems topsy-turvy. Oh, it is your wish, Canon Chisely, isn’t it? You are so good and wise, you wouldn’t let me do anything that was not right?”
“Always trust to me for your happiness, Yvonne, and all will be well,” answered the Canon.
Presently she rose, gave him her hand with simple dignity.
“I must go and think it over by myself. You will let me? Another time I will stay with you as long as you want me.”
The Canon led her to the door, kissed her hand, bending low over it in an old-fashioned way, and bowed her out of the room. Then he rang for the servant and sent a message to Mrs. Winstanley. He was a man of prompt execution.
In the interview that followed, the Canon came off triumphant. He parried his cousin’s thrusts of satire with a solicitude for her own welfare that was not free from irony. If she had not so openly showed him her distaste for the marriage, he might have displayed some sympathy for her in the loss of prestige that she was sustaining as lady ruler of the Rectory. As matters stood, he considered she had forfeited it by her caprice. Besides, he had shrewdly determined that there should not be a triple dominion in his house.
“I hope she will extend your sphere of usefulness, Everard, as a wife should,” said Mrs. Winstanley. “But she is inexperienced in these matters. You will not be hard upon her.”
“I am only hard on those who disregard my authority. Then it is duty and not severity. Have you ever found me a harsh taskmaster, Emmeline?”
“You would n’t compare us surely?”