A Little Girl in Old Philadelphia Part 53

Allin was studying hard and well, and growing more manly every day. And at last he made up his mind there should be no more shilly-shallying.

For when Primrose was tender and sweet he knew she loved him. She was--yes, a little bit jealous when he wandered too far in a half angry, half desperate moment.

So one evening he came upon her all alone. Miss Jeffries had begged madam so to come in to a little card party, for now her father was quite lame and could not get out much, and rather deaf, and altogether disheartened about England conquering America. Therefore it was a charity to visit him.

"And lose _my_ money now," she said with a good-natured laugh.

Now Primrose could not shelter herself behind Polly nor Phil. She was sweet and startled, and a dozen things that made her lovelier than ever, with a betraying color coming and going in her charming face. And the lover took sudden heart. How many times he had planned the scene. There was a lover in an old novel that won an obdurate lady, and he had rehea.r.s.ed the arguments numberless times, they were so fine and convincing. Oh, how did they begin?

He reached over suddenly and took her in his arms and kissed the fragrant lips again and again.

"Primrose," just above his breath, "you know I love you. You must have seen it ages ago, that morning you came,--do you remember,--when I had been wounded, and how we talked and talked, and you sung. I couldn't bear to have you go. You were the sweetest and dearest and most lovely thing in the whole wide world. Polly had talked so much about you. And ever since that you have been a part of my very life. I've been jealous, and angry when you smiled on others, and you do it so much, Primrose; and when that handsome young Vane was here I remembered how you loved soldiers and was--well I could have waylaid him and done anything to him, but that wouldn't have won you. I've waited so long. And now, Primrose, you must give me a little hope. Just say you will love me sometime. Oh, no! I can't wait, either. Primrose, my darling, the sweetness and glory of my life, love me now, now."

The words came out like a torrent and carried her along. The kisses had gone down to her very soul. The clasp of his hands thrilled her.

"Primrose, my sweetest darling----"

It seemed as if she was under a spell. She tried to free herself, but she had no strength. Other men had said silly things, but this was like a swift rush of music, and she was sure no one had ever uttered Primrose in such an exquisitely delicious tone before.

"Oh, Allin!" in a half sigh.

All the answer was kisses.

"Allin, Allin! Oh, let me--yes, let me free. I must tell you----"

"You must tell me nothing, save that you love me. I will listen to nothing else. Primrose, sweetest, dearest----"

"Oh, hush, Allin, let me think----"

If she did not mean to love him he would know it by some sure sign. The hesitation, the half yielding tells its own story.

And the very foolishness of love went to her heart. The vehemence, the ownership in its fearlessness, the persuasive certainty. Of course she had known it all along, she had feared now on the side of distance, now that he might speak too soon, then wondered if he would ever speak at all, while she was all the while putting him off, strange contradiction.

"Say that you love me. Just say it once and I will live on it for weeks."

"Oh, Allin, you would grow thin!" She gave a little half-hysterical laugh. And then something stole over her, an impression vague, inexplicable, that she did not quite belong to herself. Was there someone who had a better right than Allin? Before she gave herself irrevocably to this delightful young lover, she must be sure, quite sure.

"What is it, Primrose?" for he had noted the change, the almost paleness that drowned out the beautiful, radiant flush that was happiness, satisfaction.

"Oh, Primrose, surely you did not, do not love Captain Vane?"

There was a struggle in her soul, in her pulses, an unseen power that grasped her and for a moment almost rendered her breathless.

"No, I did not--love him--but he----"

"Oh, I know. It is hard winning what everyone wants," he answered moodily. "But tell me one good reason why you cannot love me."

As if there was no good reason she was silent.

"I really couldn't stand the uncertainty. I couldn't study. Oh, what would it all be worth--life, fame, fortune, or anything if I did not have you!"

"Do you love me as much as that. Would it make a great difference?"

"It would ruin all my life. It is in your hands. Oh, my darling!" For it was so delightful to be necessary.

It was not foolish to the ears of eighteen when the heart of eighteen had sometimes longed for the words. Good, sound sense is much amiss in lovemaking.

"And you do love me--a little?"

If he could make her admit that he would coax a great deal more.

"I--I can't tell in a moment."

"But you know you do? Will you deny utterly that you do?"

She could evade with pretty turnings and windings, but this, so simple, so to the point.

"Oh, wait," she cried. "I must think. Allin it is a lifelong thing. I want to be sure----"

"And then you will smile on someone else, and walk with someone else and dance and all that, and I shall be utterly miserable and never sure until you do promise."

She put her hand over his, her soft dimpled hand that thrilled and comforted him, and said in a beseeching tone, as if it was his to grant or not:

"Give me a month, Allin. I will not smile on anyone, since you think it so dangerous," with a touch of her old witchery.

"A month! As if you could not tell in a moment whether you loved or hated!"

"But I don't hate. I like you ever so much. I want to think it over. One must consider----"

"A week then. And after that we can be engaged for ever so long. It shall all be as you like then."

It proved very difficult to settle the point. He was so urgent, she so hesitating. The big old English clock in the hall struck ten, and gentlemen expected to keep good hours.

"Do not come in a whole week. No, do not kiss me again," and she held her dainty head up haughtily. "It was all very wrong. I should not have allowed such a thing until I was quite sure. Allin, perhaps I am a coquette."

"You may be anything if you are only mine."

"And then of course I should be steady and devoted, and--like Polly."

That was a maddening picture to hold out. But she would be a hundred times sweeter than Polly, than anyone's sister could possibly be, he thought as he went his way.

Was there a ghost in the room? Primrose shivered as she looked at her bed with the white curtains and her dressing table that all the girls were tr.i.m.m.i.n.g up now with ruffling and bows. She was so glad to hear the chaise stop and to have the warm, ample presence in the room, to hear the cheerful voice.

"Poor old Mr. Jeffries fails fast," said madam. "It would be a sin to win his money now. And I grew so dull and sleepy that I wished myself home twenty times. Suppose one had an old husband like that? And years ago, about fifteen, I think, Mr. Ralph Jeffries asked for my hand."

She laughed softly and began to take out her pins and stick them carefully in the cushion. Pins were very precious then.