When Arthur went back to the house his face was white with the conflict, but his resolve was taken "Do you want to marry this Brandon man, Thursa?" he asked.
"I don"t know. I am thinking. Don"t hurry me now. I can"t bear to be hurried. That"s where Aunt Honora and I never could agree; she crowded me so. I am thinking very hard, really. Mr. Smeaton"s offer is still open. I was to let him know. Of course, Arthur, you are a bishop"s nephew, and that"s something. Mr. Smeaton"s family are all in trade."
"That does not matter in this country," said Arthur. "No, that"s what he said, too. He is so witty and clever. He said I could write to the aunts that I had married the son of a leading M. P. of the West."
"Is his father a Member of Parliament?" Arthur asked quickly.
Thursa laughed delightedly. "M. P. stands for "milk peddler,"" she said. "Wasn"t he adorable to think of that?"
"Very clever indeed," Arthur said quietly.
"We did have screaming fun over it. He said we would spell it Smeatholym if it would make the aunts feel any easier, and he told me I could tell them how brave he was--that he once slew a wild oryx. He said he often drove a yoke of wild oryxen before him as gentle as lambs. I know Aunt Constance would be deeply impressed with this. He even went so far, Arthur--he was so deadly in earnest--to give me the telegraph form to sign. It is all written if I decide to marry him."
"Let me see it!" said Arthur.
She opened her little bead purse and handed him a yellow telegraph blank, on which was written:
"Mr. John Smeaton, "Rosser Avenue, "Brandon, "L. G. D. is past. O. for O."
"What does it mean?" he asked.
"You could never guess--it is so funny," she laughed. ""L. G. D." is "love"s golden dream." "O. for O." means "open for offers.""
Arthur"s face was twitching with pain and anger, but with wonderful self-control he asked her again:
"Do you want to marry this man?"
"I think I do, Arthur. He"s lovely."
Arthur handed her his pencil and motioned to her to sign the blank.
"Oh, Arthur!" she cried, "do you mean it? May I sign it? Do you not mind?"
She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him impulsively. Arthur made no response to her embrace, but the perspiration stood out in beads on his forehead.
"Sign it," he said, almost roughly. He turned away his head, while she signed her name.
She watched him anxiously. Why didn"t he speak? This was dreadfully unpleasant.
"Thursa," he said at last, "will you sing for me that Rosary song?
Just once. I want to hear it."
She sang it, sweet and tender as ever, every word a caress.
When she was done, he stood up and said very gently, but very sadly, "I wanted to be sure it was not ever meant for me. A clean cut is the easiest healed."
He went to his phonograph records and picked out the "Rosary." Only for a second he fondled it in his hand, then crushed it in pieces and threw them into the fire. "There now, Thursa," he said steadily, "that chapter is closed forever."
She looked at him in astonishment. "Why don"t you get excited and threaten to shoot yourself and all that?"
"Because I have no notion of doing it," he said.
"Well, I do wish you would be a little bit melodramatic--this is deadly uninteresting. I would have loved to write home something really thrilling."
"This is thrilling enough for me, Thursa," he answered. Then, after a pause, he said, "Shall I send your telegram?"
"Not just yet," she answered. "You see, Arthur, I want to be sure. I know that Mr. Smeaton is lovely and all that, but I want to be sure he is a gentleman. I want you to go and see him; Arthur. I will do whatever you say."
She came and put her hands on Arthur"s shoulders and looked up at him.
"Arthur, I have not treated you very well, but you"ll do this for me, and if you find that he is not--" she hesitated--"I do not like to speak of him in this way, it doesn"t seem right to doubt him, and I don"t doubt him really; but you will do it, won"t you, Arthur?"
"I will not do it!" he cried. "Don"t ask me to do this!"
"And Arthur, if you come back and say that I must forget him, I will, try to, and I will marry you and try to like all these horrid little pots and pans. I truly will, and we will never speak of this again."
She was looking into his face as she spoke, and there was an earnestness in the depths of her violet eyes, a sweet womanliness, that he had never seen before.
"Oh, Thursa!" he cried, his voice quivering with tenderness. "You are making it hard for me--how can I help but perjure myself to win you?
Any man would lie to you rather than lose you. Send some one else; I can"t do it. I can"t come back and tell you he is worthy of you."
Thursa drew his face down to hers and kissed his cheek.
"Arthur, I know you, and I will trust you. You couldn"t lie; you don"t know how, and you will do this, for me."
CHAPTER XXVI
IN HONOUR"S WAYS
O memories that bless and burn, O barren gain and bitter loss, I kiss each bead and try at last to learn To kiss the cross.
_----My Rosary._
ARTHUR went to Brandon that night, presumably on business relating to his house-furnishing. Not even Martha knew the nature of his visit to the Wheat City. It was late in the evening when he arrived, so late that he was unable to make any inquiries, but was forced to spend the night in uncertainty, with only his own gloomy thoughts for company.
The varied night sounds of the city smote on his unaccustomed ear.
The long hall of the hotel echoed the pa.s.sing of many feet; doors slammed at intervals, and once a raucous voice called loudly for "Towels for "53""; from the room next his came the sound of talking and laughter; farther down the hall a young baby cried dismally.
Through the babel of voices came the regular pink-pank of a banjo in the parlour below. Outside, the wind raged against the frosted windows, train-bells rang and whistles blew all night long, and the pounding of horses" feet on the pavement never ceased--there seemed to be one long procession of heavy drays pa.s.sing down the street.
In the quiet of his own house on Plover Creek Arthur had almost forgotten the outside world that never sleeps--the rushing, careless, inexorable world, that cannot be stayed or entreated. He had lived his life in the country, and he loved its silent places, the kindly silences of the country nights that lie so soothingly on the heart and brain. To-night, the roar of the Brandon street was full of evil significance, for this man, this interloper, whom his soul hated so bitterly, was part of the great uncaring throng that surged past; this rushing, jostling, aggressive life was what he stood for, this man who had stolen from him his heart"s dearest treasure.
All night long Arthur lay staring into the darkness, trying to, fight out the greatest battle of his life; on one side Thursa and the memory of her kisses on his cheek, and on the other side honour and honesty, and all the traditions of his house; sometimes telling himself sternly that there was but one course open to him, and then, suddenly overcome by his love for her, crying out bitterly that he would never, never give her up. The pitch-black night seemed interminable to him, but dawn came at last, deep blue behind the frost-ferns on the window, slowly fading to pale azure, then suddenly changing to rosiest pink as the sun rolled up over the sandhills of the a.s.siniboine and sent his cheerful rays over an untroubled white world.
At half-past eight Arthur was walking the street. No one would imagine, to look at the quietly dressed young Englishman, that he was going through a severe mental struggle. Without any difficulty he found the store for which he was looking. The words on the sign, "J.