LITMIR.BIZ

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      She was nerving herself to ask a question. Without turning round, and speaking very carelessly, she asked it.

      "I suppose Mr. Thorndyke is in New York. Have you seen him lately?"

      A jealous pang shot through the lawyer's heart. She remembered yet.

      "I see him very often," he answered, promptly, and a little coldly; "I saw him the day I left. He is about to be married."

      She was standing with her back to him, fluttering in a restless sort of way. As he said this she suddenly grew still.

      "The match is a very old affair," Mr. Gilbert went on, resolutely; "he has been engaged nearly two years. His uncle, Mr. Darcy, wishes it very much. The young lady is an heiress, and extremely handsome. They are very much attached to one another, it is said and are to be married early in the spring."

      She did not move—she did not speak. A blank uncomfortable silence followed, and once more poor Mr. Gilbert's heart contracted with a painful jealous spasm. If she would only turn round and let him see her face. Who was to understand these girls!

      "What! all in the dark, Norry?" cried Uncle Reuben's cheery voice, as he came bustling in redolent of stable odors. "Come, light up, and give Mr. Gilbert a song."

      She obeyed at once. The glare of the lamp fell full upon her, what change was it that he saw in her face? She was hardly paler than usual, she rarely had much color, but there was an expression about the soft-cut childish mouth, an unpleasant tightness about the lips that quite altered the whole expression of the face.

      She opened the piano and sung—sung and played better than he had ever heard her before. She sang for hours, everything she knew—Mr. Thorndyke's favorites and all. She never rose until the striking of ten told her that bedtime had come.

      The lawyer stayed all night; but in that pleasant guest-chamber that had lodged his rival last, he slept little. Was she in love with Thorndyke, or was she not? Impossible to judge these women—any girl in her teens can baffle the shrewdest lawyer of them all. He lay tossing about full of hope, of love, of jealousy, of doubt, his fever at its very climax.

      "I'll endure this torture no longer," he resolved, sullenly. "I'll ask her to marry me to-morrow."

      With Richard Gilbert to resolve was to act. Five seconds after they had met, shaken hands, and said good-morning, he proposed a sleigh ride. The day was mild and sunny, the sleighing splendid, and a sleigh ride to a New Yorker a rare and delightful luxury. Would she go? Yes, she would go, but Miss Bourdon said it spiritlessly enough. And so the sleigh was brought round, and at ten o'clock in the crisp, yellow sunshine, the pair started.

      But it must have been a much duller spirit than that of Norine that could have remained dull in that dazzling sunshine, that swift rush through the still frozen air. A lovely rose-pink came into her pale cheeks, a bright light into her brown eyes, her laugh rang out, she was herself as he had first known her once more.

      "How splendid winter is, after all!" she exclaimed; "look at those crystallized hemlocks—did you ever see anything so beautiful? I sometimes wonder how I can find it so dreary."

      "You do find it dreary, then?"

      "Oh, so dreary—so long—so humdrum—so dull!" She checked herself with one of her pretty French gestures. "It seems ungrateful to say so, but I can't help it. Life seems hardly worth the living sometimes here."

      "Here! Would it be better elsewhere?"

      "Yes—I think so. Change is always pleasant. One grows dull and stupid living in one dull stupid place forever. Change is what I want, novelty is delight."

      "Let me offer it to you then, Norine. Come to New York with me."

      "Mr. Gilbert! With you!"

      "With me—as my wife, I love you, Norine."

      It was said. The old formula, the commonplace words that are to tell all that is in a heart full to overflowing. He sat very pale, beyond that and a certain nervous twitching of his face there was nothing to tell that all the happiness of his life hung on her reply. For her—she just looked at him blankly, incredulous—with wide open eyes of wonder.

      "Your wife! Marry you! Mr. Gilbert!"

      "I love you, Norine. It seems strange you have not known it until I tell it. I am double your age, but I will do my best to make you happy. Ah, Norine, if you knew how long I have thought of this—how dearly I love you, you would surely not refuse. I am a rich man, and all I have is yours. The world you have longed to see, you shall see. Be my wife Norine, and come with me to New York."

      The first shock of surprise was over. She sat very still, looking straight out before her at the dazzling expanse of sun and snow. His words awoke no answering thrill in her heart, and yet she was conscious of a sense of pleasure. Be his wife—well, why not? The prospect of a new life broke upon her—the bright, exciting, ever-new life of a great city. She thought of that, not of Richard Gilbert.

      "Speak to me, Norine," he said, "for Heaven's sake don't sit silent like this—only to answer no. For good or evil, let me have my answer at once."

      But still she sat mute. She had lost Laurence Thorndyke—lost—nay he had never been hers for one poor second. He belonged to that beautiful, high-bred heiress whom he was to marry in the spring. She would read it in the papers some day, and then—her own blank, empty, aimless life spread before her. She turned suddenly to the man beside her, with something of the look her face had worn last night when she had first heard of Thorndyke's marriage.

      "You are very good," she answered, quite steadily. "I will be your wife if you like."

      "Thank Heaven!"—he said under his breath. "Thank Heaven!"

      Her heart smote her. She was giving him so little—he was giving her so much. He had always been her good, kind, faithful friend, and she had liked him so much. Yes, that was just it, she liked him so well she could never love him. But at least she would be honest.

      "I—I don't care for—I mean I don't love——" she broke down, her eyes fixed on her muff. "Oh, Mr. Gilbert, I do like you, but not like that. I—I know I'm not half good enough ever to marry you."

      He smiled, a smile of great content.

      "You will let me be the judge of that, Norry. You are quite sure you like me?"

      "Oh, yes. I always did, you know, but I never—no never thought you cared for— Oh, dear me! how odd it seems. What will Uncle Reuben say?"

      Mr Gilbert smiled again.

      "Uncle Reuben won't lose his senses with surprise, I fancy. Ah, Norry, Uncle Reuben's eyes are not half a quarter so bright nor so black as yours, but he has seen more than you after all."

      And then all the way home he poured into her pleased listening ear the story of her future life. It sounded like a fairy tale to the country girl. A dazzling vista spread before her, a long life in "marble halls," Brussels carpets, satin upholstery, a grand piano, pictures, books, and new music without end. Silk dresses, diamond ear-rings, the theatres, the opera, a carriage, a waiting-maid—French, if possible—her favorite heroines all had French maids, Long Branch, Newport, balls, dinners—her head swam with the dazzle and delight of it all. Be his wife—of course she would be his wife—to-morrow, if it were practicable.

      But she did not say this, you understand. Her face was all rosy and dimpling and smiling as they drove home; and alas for Richard Gilbert, how little he personally had to do with all that girlish rapture. He saw that well-pleased face, and, like a wise man, asked no useless questions. She was going to be his wife, everything was said in that.

CHAPTER

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