Had I had nothing else to do but to read and muse I should have greatly missed Martelli. As it was, I felt his absence on the evening that followed his departure. I missed his dark face, his glowing eye, his rapid speech, his tart questions. His arm-chair looked very empty without him. My supper too was somewhat tasteless, wanting the sharp condiment of his tongue and gestures. But how should I feel his absence very sensibly with Mrs. Fraser to comfort me? I only wonder I felt it at all. Our parting had not been calculated to sharpen regret. I had no notion he was such a passionate man. There was no doubt he had been insulting. But what in the world could have provoked such an outbreak? He would have had me believe it was my resolution to marry Mrs. Fraser that angered him. But what was Mrs. Fraser to him? Was he a monomaniac—mad on the subject of women? We know that there are people born with antipathies which nothing can shake. Lady Heneage would faint at the sight of a rose; the Marquis de la Rochejacquelin would turn white with fear before a squirrel; and I have read in some author of a man whose antipathy to old women was such, that once when his friends, by way of joke, introduced an elderly female into his presence, he fell in a fit and died. I do not say that I quite believed this to be Martelli's disease: but I was strongly disposed to think that he had some eccentric aversion to living in a house where there was a mistress.

I did not pass a quiet night. I had resolved to propose next day to my beautiful neighbour, and my resolution rather agitated me. A man may do in a moment of impulse what he would fear to attempt in cold blood. I was rather sorry I had not proposed that afternoon. I had been surrounded by conditions highly favourable to a declaration. It would have been over now, and I should have been able to sleep the sleep of the accepted.

I had told her I would call in the morning. At another time she might have asked me in her odd sweet way "Why?" but her silence was auspicious. She had lowered her beautiful eyes, and the conscious curve of her mouth gave me reason to believe she had guessed my mission.

So at about eleven o'clock, when the sun stood high and the land lay hot and still beneath its fiery gaze, I took my hat and stepped over to Elmore Cottage. There was no need of ceremony now to gain admittance. The girl knew I was a privileged visitor and admitted me with a smile.

I entered the little drawing-room. It was empty. The blinds were half drawn, and the window stood wide open. Signs of her recent presence were visible in the garden hat upon the sofa, in some drawing materials on the table, above all, in the soft peculiar perfume which I associated with her. She was such a strange woman that I thought she might have hidden on hearing my knock; and I looked behind the sofa, and the door, and in the corner protected by the piano, for her. Then I drew to the table to see what she was drawing. It was a man's head, unfinished though complete enough to offer a good likeness. The hair was dark, the nose straight, the mouth firm, the eye sufficiently large. The slight line of whisker was not shaded. This sketch dissipated all my nervousness. I looked up with a smile, and met her eyes peering at me from the door.

"If I had known it was you I should have hid that," said she, coming forward in a somewhat defiant manner, but with a delicate pink on her cheek.

"Did you not want me to see it?"

"No."

"Why? It is charmingly done—the very image of me."

She came round to where I stood.

"Go and stand opposite," she said, "and then I shall be able to tell."

I did as she bade me.

"Hold your face in profile."

I looked at the wall. She was silent for some moments.

"Yes. It is not bad. My memory must be good."

"Mrs. Fraser," said I, "what made you take my face for a subject?"

"Are you annoyed?"

"No; and you don't think me annoyed?"

"Oh, I fancied you would think I had not flattered you enough."

"But what made you take my face?"

"Because it suited me."

I placed a chair for her and seated myself at her side.

"Mrs. Fraser, I know your Christian name—it is Geraldine. May I call you Geraldine?"

"How did you know that?" she asked suddenly.

"I read it at the corner of those drawings there."

She laughed.

"May I call you Geraldine?"

"If you like. Do you think it a pretty name?"

"A sweet name. Now, Geraldine, will you tell me what made you take my face for a sketch?"

The utterance of her name pleased her. She looked up at me with lighted eyes.

"Have I not told you?"

"No. Your answer was evasive. I want the truth."

"I wished to see if I could hit off its expression with my pencil."

"And you have drawn a good likeness. But I miss one thing."

"What is that?" she asked, getting up and looking at the drawing.

"Look at those eyes," I answered, bending over her and pointing.

"Well; they are bold—do you mean they are not large enough?"

"Oh, they are large enough. But they do not tell the truth."

"What should they tell?"

"My love, Geraldine."

She did not answer. I passed my arm round her waist.

"Do you see what I mean?"

She raised her eyes to my face. I searched them; they were calm, and pensive and soft, but radiant too, with a light that was new to them.

"I understand," she whispered.

I led her to a chair and knelt by her that I might see her face, holding her hand in both mine.

"Geraldine, you knew that I loved you?"

"No, I did not know it."

"But you suspected it."

"Yes, I could not help suspecting it."

"And do you love me, Geraldine?"

"Yes."

"Well enough to be my wife?"

"Yes."

I kissed her forehead. "How am I to thank you for your love?"

"By always, always, loving me."

"I will always love you, Geraldine."

"I am sure you will," she answered fondly, smoothing my cheek; "and your name is Arthur. May I call you Arthur?"

"Of course you may."

"Arthur," she said, looking earnestly into my eyes, "what makes you want me to be your wife?"

"My love."

"And what makes you love me?"

"Your sweetness—your waywardness—and all the little points and lights, the colour and shadow, which make up your character and your beauty."

"But would you like my character if I were not pretty?"

"Certainly I should."

"You would think me rude. My face is like charity to my character—it hides my multitude of sins."

"Your face is like music to poetry—it turns your character to song."

"Arthur, you may compliment me now if you like; I shall love to hear your praise."

"Dearest," I exclaimed, rising, "how proud and happy your love makes me feel! Finding you here in this solitude and taking you from it, makes me resemble one of those knights of old who rescued beautiful damsels from the guardianship of the horrible dragons which then flourished. Your dragon is more matter-of-fact than the scaly brutes the poets sing of; but let me tell you it is quite as formidable. Ennui is its name."

"Come into the garden," she exclaimed, springing up; "I prefer talking in the sunshine."

"Come into my garden," I answered; "there are trees there and we shall like the cool shade." And she tied on her hat before the looking-glass, regarding me with her black eyes, though she seemed to regard herself. I said, "Would you like to live at Elmore Court when we are married?"

"Oh, yes!" she answered, turning quickly round, "I would not choose to live anywhere else."

"But will you not find it dull?"

"Not with you," she replied.

I kissed her hand. "At all events," I said, "we can live there until the term I have taken it for is expired."

"We will live there always," she exclaimed earnestly. "But come into the garden. You can tell how much I care for the world by living here," she continued, as we left the house; "indeed I never wish to see the world again. I will make you promise always to live at Elmore Court, for there we shall be alone. I shall want you all to myself, Arthur. Indeed you will find me jealous, dear—would you like me to be jealous?"

"It is the most genuine test of love. You will find me jealous too."

"Shall I?" she cried, clapping her hands. "And it will be very proper that you should. But I doubt if you'll have occasion."

We passed through the gate and entered the grounds of Elmore Court.

"How could you think I should be dull here?" she asked, prettily folding her hands, whilst she paused to look at the building and the brilliant coup d'oeil of the garden. "All day long I should be busy with my flowers, and in the evening you should read to me, and teach me all you know, that I may become as wise as you."

"I will show you over the house presently, Geraldine. Meanwhile let us seat ourselves under those trees. Dearest," I said, taking her hand, "I have been so long looking forward to this time, when I may call you and think of you as my own, that now it is come I cannot believe it here."

"You have not had to wait very long. Did you expect to win me so easily?"

"I don't know; but I felt you would become my wife."

"But I was not destined for you, or I should have married you first. Is it here we are to sit?"

"We are in the shade here."

She passed her hand through my arm and pressed her shoulder against mine.

"Do you feel happy, Arthur?"

"Perfectly happy."

"Do you wish to ask me any questions about my past, dearest?"

"No. If there is anything I should know you will tell me."

She sighed and pressed her cheek against my shoulder.

"Arthur," she whispered, "my marriage was not a happy one."

"I should have thought that, Geraldine, by your eyes."

"Are they so very mournful?"

"Sometimes. But mournful does not so well define their expression as pensive. Your heart is sometimes troubled."

"With the past," she rejoined quickly and eagerly. "My husband did not love me. He left me. When I became a widow I resolved to bury my sorrow and my life in some quiet obscure corner like Cliffegate. I have a little income, Arthur—why do you not ask me about it? Other men would."

"I hope you will not find me altogether like other men; though I hope I am no Pharisee."

"I have two hundred a year. It was left me by grandmamma. Her solicitor sends me fifty pounds every quarter. You may have it all, Arthur."

"Thanks, dear; and in return you shall have two thousand a year to spend with me."

"Is that your fortune?" she asked, opening her eyes.

I nodded, with a smile.

"How rich you are! But it is nice to have plenty of money, and I shan't love you the less for having it. No; many women would pretend that they would much rather have found you poor, that they might feel sure you knew you were loved only for yourself. Now I am glad you are rich; not because I care for your money, but because I know that such a fortune as yours must have enabled you to see life, and that your choice of me comes after an experience of the world. It will be a matured choice, so that I shall not be likely to lose you."

"Geraldine, you talk the language of wisdom, as the Turks say. I have seen life, and can promise you that my love is not the caprice of a greenhorn."

"Now you shall show me over your house," she said, jumping up.

I conducted her in by the balcony, and when we were in the library I said, "This is the room in which I first saw you."

"Here?"

"Yes; I fell asleep, and in that sleep I saw your face."

"Were you frightened, Arthur?"

"It was only a dream. But I was frightened when I saw you afterwards."

"What a quantity of books you have!" she exclaimed, standing on tiptoe to read the backs of the volumes on the upper shelves. "Have you read them all?"

"I wish I had. I should be a wiser man."

"Too wise to marry me, perhaps?"

"The wisdom that would prohibit that would be very closely allied to insanity. I have had little reason during my life to flatter myself on my judgment; but I think I may boast of my wisdom now."

"This room is very pretty, and those grounds look lovely from the window; yet you must have felt dull here."

"I confess I did—in spite of the entertainment provided for me by a sharp sinister little foreigner named Martelli, whom I hired to keep me company—a little man—humorous, passionate, and I daresay vengeful."

"I dislike foreigners," she said, with a shudder. "Why did you not employ an Englishman?"

"The fact was, I wished to learn Italian."

"Was he an Italian?" she asked quickly.

"Yes. Don't you like Italians?"

"I hate them!" she exclaimed, her face flushing with sudden passion while her eyes flashed irefully.

"Then it was fortunate he resolved to leave me. You and he would hardly have got on. Perhaps," I said, laughing, "his subtle sagacity pierced the marble of your face when he saw you, and discerned your aversion to his compatriots."

"I thought you were alone?"

"On the first night I was. On the second night I hadn't positively spirit enough to risk a second encounter. But, dearest, I have come to show you over the house."

"I am ready," she exclaimed, her face and manner changing in one of those abrupt alternations that made so curious a feature of her character.

"But first," said I, touching the bell, "there is an imposing ceremony to be gone through. I must introduce you to Mrs. Williams, my housekeeper; a very worthy woman, whom you will find a most useful minister to help you in the government of this little kingdom."

When Mrs. Williams entered I said, "This is my housekeeper, Geraldine;" and then to the other, "Mrs. Williams, this lady, I hope, will shortly come here to take possession of Elmore Court as its mistress. I wished her to become acquainted with you."

She curtseyed without any expression of surprise. Geraldine took her hand.

"I am sure I shall like you, Mrs. Williams. The appearance of this house, so far as I have seen, tells me how valuable you will be to me."

"I am grateful for your kind opinion, ma'am," said Mrs. Williams.

"Are you not surprised to hear of Mr. Thornburn's resolution to marry me?" asked Geraldine, in her pretty downright way.

Mrs. Williams smiled quietly.

"I didn't think it would happen so soon," she replied; "but I guessed it would end in his marrying you, ma'am."

"There, Geraldine," I said, "you see Mrs. Williams knows how I have thought of you."

"Did I want Mrs. Williams to tell me?"

"At all events it is well to have a witness."

She slipped her soft little hand into mine as we left the room; and so, conducted by Mrs. Williams, we passed from one room to another. My darling's delight was genuine. Her child-like pleasure at all she saw was delicious to me to watch. She was incessant in her praises of Mrs. Williams' taste and orderliness; and to do that good woman justice, she deserved all the admiration she received. She listened complacently to Geraldine's prattle; and when she found that she was no longer required, slipped quietly away.

We stood at the drawing-room window. She had thrown aside her hat, and the sunlight made gold of her beautiful hair.

"Do you like Elmore Court?" I asked.

"It is a sweet home."

"And do you think you will be happy here?"

"Cannot you guess? I feel perfectly happy now, Arthur; and that implies great trust in you—if I did not think you loved me with all your strength I could not be happy. Yet there was a time when I thought I could never be happy again—never happy again," she repeated, with a little sigh. "It was winter with me then, but it is summer now. It is sweet to be loved. There are women who say they could live without love; but I do not believe them. Women were born to be loved."

"Some women were," I answered, toying with her hand.

"I have been very lonely, Arthur. Sometimes I thought I should go mad. It is bad for the mind to feed upon itself. The longer its abstinence the more painful grows its craving; and to satisfy itself at last, it invents strange fancies and dreadful thoughts—and that is how people become crazy. Your face and voice are a new life to me. I feel that I am not dead now. But there have been times when I thought myself a ghost. Did you ever have that feeling? It always brought a pain here;" she touched her forehead. "See there!" she suddenly exclaimed, "what a beautiful butterfly! If I were a little girl I should love to chase it. But I would not now," she added, shaking her head; "those who have suffered much are always merciful."

"Now, Geraldine, I want to speak to you of our marriage."

"Yes." She looked up.

"Are you not a Roman Catholic?"

"I am. Do you like Roman Catholics?"

"Quite as well as Protestants, though I am a stanch Protestant."

"After all we are agreed upon the chief points of religion?"

"Very nearly. Toleration is the most material point in which we differ. But Christianity is the religion of love; and love is large and can find room for many sects. But to revert to our wedding—we shall have to be married in two churches."

"I know."

"Is there a Roman Catholic church here?"

"No. But there is one at Cornpool. I know Father John; he is my confessor."

"How often do you confess?"

"I do not like to say," she replied, timidly; "it is not often enough."

"Once a year?"

"Oh, Arthur, no! Once a month."

"So often?"

"So often! I should confess by right once a week. Would you mind me going to Father John?"

"No."

Let me say this concession was only an act of policy. I determined to try to convert her.

"The want of a church," she continued, "was a great drawback to Cliffegate. But I knew there was one at Cornpool. Yet the little cottage suited me so well, and the place was so secluded, I could not resist taking it."

"Then, Geraldine, we shall have to be married at Cornpool. And now, dearest, when?"

"When you wish, Arthur."

"I want to possess you, dearest. This life is so full of uncertainty that, now you have accepted me, I should not be happy until we are married. Will the end of the month be too soon?"

"Impatient Arthur!" she said, pressing my hand to her cheek.