The White Peacock Part 51

"See," she said, "I have come."

"Yes-I thought you wouldn't-perhaps"-he looked at her, and suddenly gained courage: "You have been putting white on-you, you do look nice-though not like--"

"What?-Who else?"

"n.o.body else-only I-well I'd-I'd thought about it different-like some pictures."

She smiled with a gentle radiance, and asked indulgently, "And how was I different?"

"Not all that soft stuff-plainer."

"But don't I look very nice with all this soft stuff, as you call it?"-and she shook the silk away from her smiles.

"Oh, yes-better than those naked lines."

"You are quaint to-night-what did you want me for-to say good-bye?"

"Good-bye?"

"Yes-you're going away, Cyril tells me. I'm very sorry-fancy horrid strangers at the Mill! But then I shall be gone away soon, too. We are all going you see, now we've grown up,"-she kept hold of my arm. "Yes."

"And where will you go-Canada? You'll settle there and be quite a patriarch, won't you?"

"I don't know."

"You are not really sorry to go, are you?"

"No, I'm glad."

"Glad to go away from us all."

"I suppose so-since I must."

"Ah, Fate-Fate! It separates you whether you want it or not."

"What?"

"Why, you see, you have to leave. I mustn't stay out here-it is growing chilly. How soon are you going?"

"I don't know."

"Not soon then?"

"I don't know."

"Then I may see you again?"

"I don't know."

"Oh, yes, I shall. Well, I must go. Shall I say good-bye now?-that was what you wanted, was it not?"

"To say good-bye?"

"Yes."

"No-it wasn't-I wanted, I wanted to ask you--"

"What?" she cried.

"You don't know, Lettie, now the old life's gone, everything-how I want you-to set out with-it's like beginning life, and I want you."

"But what could I do-I could only hinder-what help should I be?"

"I should feel as if my mind was made up-as if I could do something clearly. Now it's all hazy-not knowing what to do next."

"And if-if you had-what then?"

"If I had you I could go straight on."

"Where?"

"Oh-I should take a farm in Canada--"

"Well, wouldn't it be better to get it first and make sure--?"

"I have no money."

"Oh!-so you wanted me--?"

"I only wanted you, I only wanted you. I would have given you--"

"What?"

"You'd have me-you'd have all me, and everything you wanted."

"That I paid for-a good bargain! No, oh no, George, I beg your pardon.

This is one of my flippant nights. I don't mean it like that. But you know it's impossible-look how I'm fixed-it _is_ impossible, isn't it now."

"I suppose it is."

"You know it is-Look at me now, and say if it's not impossible-a farmer's wife-with you in Canada."

"Yes-I didn't expect you like that. Yes, I see it is impossible. But I'd thought about it, and felt as if I must have you. Should have you .

. . Yes, it doesn't do to go on dreaming. I think it's the first time, and it'll be the last. Yes, it is impossible. Now I have made up my mind."

"And what will you do?"

"I shall not go to Canada."