CHAPTER XXVI

MR. WILLOUGHBY'S AFFAIR

"IF I might offer a word of advice, it would be—not to make too much haste," were the parting words of Mr. Gilbert. "Best not to be in a hurry, you know."

Mr. Willoughby resolved to follow this counsel, and on no account to give in to a spirit of impatience.

Nor did he; if the degree of haste were to be measured by the degree of desire on his part. It was astonishing how that desire grew, when once the notion of marrying Mildred Pattison was fully admitted to his own mind.

The first time that they had met, Mildred had made a strong impression on him; the second time that he had visited Old Maxham, though he did not exchange a word with her, that impression had been deepened by various facts casually told him about Mildred. And the next interview that he had with her convinced him that, if time and opportunity could be found, she might become to him what no other woman had yet been. The time he resolved to take; the opportunities he determined to make.

Mildred sometimes wondered over the length of his stay in Old Maxham. Weeks passed by, and, still he remained at the doctor's, as a "paying guest," but certainly not as a patient, for he made no pretence to be an invalid, or in need of sea-air. None the less, he stayed on.

She began also to wonder how it was that she so often met him, and why it was that he should seem always so pleased to see her. He managed to ingratiate himself with Miss Perkins, so that Miss Perkins actually asked him to come in now and then to tea. Mildred always had her meals with Miss Perkins and Jessie, therefore by this means, he saw her often.

Mildred felt some astonishment at so unusual a step on the part of Miss Perkins, not knowing aught as to certain invisible wires set in motion by the doctor's wife; and she felt yet greater astonishment at the readiness and frequency with which Mr. Willoughby availed himself of the invitation.

Soon a third wonder arose in the mind of Mildred. She was puzzled as to the warmth of her own liking for Mr. Willoughby,—puzzled that his presence should be so agreeable to her, puzzled to find out that if for two or three days she saw nothing of him she felt dull.

"It really is ridiculous," she said one day to herself. "I have known him such a little while, and very soon he will be going back to London, and then none of us will see anything more of him. At least, not for months. Perhaps some day he may come again to Old Maxham. I hope he will; he is a nice men. One can't know him and not like him. But it is rather absurd to care too much, when he is a mere bird of passage,—isn't it, Hero?" Mildred patted her dog and smiled as she spoke.

Not long after this she was one day going off for another afternoon ramble alone with Hero, when Mr. Willoughby happened to come up just before she started. He was always "happening" to meet her wherever she might chance to go; and it never occurred to Mildred that the "happening" might sometimes be due to a private hint bestowed upon Mr. Willoughby by Miss Perkins or Jessie.

Time had been when Miss Perkins would have set herself in opposition to anything so far from advantageous to herself as the possible marriage of Mildred Pattison. But Miss Perkins had had some lessons in self-forgetfulness during the last year; and now that the danger of having to part with her permanent lodger loomed upon her, she was able, amid regrets, to think of what would be for Mildred's good, and to endeavour to further that good, even though it should mean loss to herself. Jessie, too, though not without a struggle, took the same view of matters.

A late equinoctial gale seemed to be setting, but Mildred did not mind a struggle with the wind, now that she was again in good health and spirits. She had put on an old dress, and had tied a gauze veil tightly over her hat, so that it was in no danger of being carried away. And at the moment when she was starting, Mr. Willoughby made his appearance.

"Are you going for a walk? May I come part of the way with you?" he asked. "There are one or two things that I—well, that I rather wish to say. This might be a good opportunity. And really—" as a gust twisted her half round,—"it is rather a boisterous day for you to go alone."

"I'm not afraid of the wind, thank you; and I am used to taking care of myself." Mildred felt shy, which was not usual.

He had walked with her before, and she had not been shy in the least; but she was now quite glad of a thick veil, behind which she could blush comfortably.

"But you do not mind my coming, for at least part of the way?"

"O no; not at all."

Then they set off, and Mr. Willoughby talked on everyday subjects, and Mildred had little to say in reply. Most of her attention seemed to be given to the effect of the wind upon her dress, which certainly was discomposing.

Once or twice she spoke to Hero, and when necessary she answered briefly some question or remark of Mr. Willoughby; but for the first time conversation flagged between them. Generally he and she had any amount to say one to the other; and Mildred had often thought how pleasant a man he was to talk with, because he always understood at once what she meant. Some people were so dense, she used to say to herself, comparing them with him.

It began to dawn upon her, as they trudged along, that although Mr. Willoughby talked, he too was embarrassed, no less than she was. Yet he was not given to shyness, any more than was she.

She tried to think of something to say, which should put them at ease, and tried in vain. Nothing seemed to be exactly the right thing for that moment; and the feeling of constraint lasted till they were outside the village.

Then Mr. Willoughby asked, "Which way were you going?"

"I had not made up my mind."

"Don't you think we had better keep to this lane? We shall not have so much wind. Unless you wish for a good blow."

"No. I like the lane."

"Pretty, is it not? How fast the hedges are budding! We don't see that in London. I sometimes think, as years go on, that I should like to have a little cottage in a place like Old Maxham, and run down to it often for change. What do you think?"

"I should think it would be very nice for you."

"I have been looking at one or two. It wouldn't be a bad plan. My main work lies in London, and part of the year I must be there; but it isn't needful all the year round. And I think I get more fond of the country. Are you the same?"

"Very fond."

"Too fond ever to live in London?"

"I don't know," whispered Mildred. She happened to glance up, and met his eyes fixed upon her with so earnest a gaze that she was disconcerted.

"I'm not asking that question for nothing," observed Mr. Willoughby. "I have an object. There was something particular that I wanted to say to you, was there not? I told you that there was."

"Yes; you told me so."

"The only doubt on my mind is whether perhaps I may be saying it too soon. That's the doubt. But I don't want to wait longer. I want you to understand. But, remember, if I speak out now, I don't press for a hurried answer. If you cannot at once reply as I wish, I am willing to wait. I will give you any length of time to think it over—to get used to the idea. Perhaps it may be a now idea to you—and yet I have some hopes. You have been very kind to me lately."

"I think it is you who have been kind to me," Mildred said unsteadily, glad once more of her veil.

"My wish is to be kind to you, not now only, but always—through life. I should like to have it in my power to make yours a very happy life, so far as one has power over another's happiness. This is not a new thought with me. Even that first time that we met, when you were so sad, and I tried to comfort you, I found—not at the moment but afterward—that I could not shake off the recollection of your face. When I came down here again last autumn, I made no effort to see you, though once or twice I had a glimpse without trying. But every one spoke of you. It was singular, in those three days, how often your name came up, and how many warm words were said. Then, this time we met by accident—at least, with no effort on your part or mine—and that one walk decided me. I have known ever since how things might be with me. I made up my mind then to stay on here for several weeks, and to see as much of you as possible. And—I have done so."

"It has been very good of you," Mildred said in a low tone.

"I don't know about the goodness. I have pleased myself in doing it. But the question has arisen now—shall I stay longer, or shall I go back at once to London?"

Mildred was silent.

"And I am going to ask you to settle that question for me. I should like to stay—if you have not seen too much of me. Will you let me? Or would you rather that I should go? If I stay, I shall want to see a good deal of you—as much as can be managed. Do you think you would miss me at all, if I were to go, Mildred?"

He had never before called her by her name. She caught her breath slightly, and then said, "Yes, I think I should."

"That gives me hope. And if I stay, it will be for a purpose. I want to win you to be my wife. Perhaps you cannot yet promise. You may want to see a little more of me first. When you know me better—"

Mildred made no answer.

"You would rather wait for that, perhaps. You would rather not give an answer just yet. I shall leave you free as long as you wish."

They walked in silence for some distance. Mr. Willoughby would not break it. He saw that Mildred was deep in thought, and one or two side-glances showed him that her colour came and went fitfully behind the veil.

Presently she said,—

"May I have just a few hours?"

"Days, if you wish."

"No; a few hours. I think I should like that. I think that will be enough. I think—" in a softer voice—"I am very nearly sure—already."

"I hope I know what that means," he said as softly.

She gave him one glance.

"You don't know what a difference it would make in my life—if it might be. I am alone in the world now, just as you are. Then, we should neither of us be alone any longer."

A faint smile stirred her lips. "You told me once that I ought to be content with—other relationships. With mankind in general."

"I suppose I did say something of that sort. The thought has often been a comfort to me in hours of loneliness. But the nearer tie is not wrong. If that can be, I at least shall not be lonely any more, or in need of comfort."

"And I too—"

The three little words slipped out involuntarily and were checked. Mr. Willoughby waited in vain for more.

Again they walked in silence, reaching a piece of open common, where the wind was so strong as to make walking difficult, and speech almost impossible. Getting beyond it, they were again in a sheltered lane, with high banks, and Mr. Willoughby said, "Would you rather be alone, or may I walk with you still?"

"If you like," she said shyly.

"Then I like to stay. Perhaps I ought to tell you something else, and that is that I am well off as to money. I have a comfortable house in Bloomsbury, and if you like it we will set up a little cottage in the country—here or elsewhere. You should see your old friends as often as you wished. Of course there would be no more dressmaking—except for your own amusement."

"I am fond of dressmaking. I should like to teach others how to do it, to help them on—perhaps some poor girls in London," Mildred said dreamily, unaware how much the words would mean to him. It was almost an admission of what her answer would be. "And Jessie—I have undertaken to teach Jessie. I cannot leave that half done."

"There would be no need. She should learn still—either from you or from some one else. Whatever you wanted done, in the way of giving help to others, I would try to manage for you."

Mildred stood still. "I think I should like to go home now," she said, and they turned.

She was silent again, lost in thought.

The common had to be once more crossed, which meant another struggle with the wind. Mr. Willoughby would not interrupt her thoughts. They reached the long lane, and traversed half of it, with few words.

Then, suddenly, Mildred stood still. She put up her veil, and turned her face towards her companion.

"Mr. Willoughby—"

"Yes."

A bright colour came into her cheeks.

"I think—I hardly think it is right to keep you longer in uncertainty. I mean—it is not needful. I find that I shall not need to wait—that I do not need more time. I think I know now."

The flushing cheeks, the brightening eyes, filled him with gladness. No one was within sight, and he took her hand in his.

"Will you be my wife, Mildred?"

"If you think I can make you happy—yes," she answered.