“I shall have my three hundred a year,” she added, almost pleadingly. “Can we not make it enough? Do you know that the Vissians live on less than that?”
Kingcote dropped his eyes, and spoke with embarrassment.
“To me it is wealth. For you, even alone, it would be miserable poverty. How can I accept such a sacrifice?”
“A sacrifice? Is that your measure of my love?”
He kissed her hand, then asked laughingly: “What do you think my own income is? You dare not guess. I am richer than Goldsmith’s country parson; I have full sixty pounds.”
“Why, then, are we not wealthy? That is the rent of a delightful house, somewhere far away. Might we not go abroad? Would you,” she added anxiously, “go abroad with me?”
“It is changed. There is no effort asked of me. I live only for you.”
“My friends? One, two, three at most; those I need not lose. My acquaintances, three hundred at least; ah! let them go! It shall be a new world. What need have I of friends? _You_ are my friend, my one, sole friend! I will have no other. Oh, you will not weary of me? I bring you so little--my ignorance, my foolish habits of thought. You will be patient with me, and help me to become more the kind of woman suitable for--for your wife?”
The flush in her cheeks had become steadfast; her eyes gleamed unnaturally. Each word she spoke heightened the fever which was gaining upon her. He noticed this.
“I have been wrong to let you talk so much,” he said gravely. “You are tired; you will suffer.”
“No, I shall sleep, and with such peace in my heart as I have never known.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, and murmured words that he did not hear.
“Is Mrs. Stratton still with you?” he asked.
“At church; it must be nearly time for her to return.”
“She is reading, I suppose; she always prefers to be alone.”
“No, indeed no. Is my face worn? Do I look--old?”
“What was that word? You are as beautiful as day.”
“You will come very soon again? I will write and tell you when.”
“I am still weak,” she said with a smile. Her voice was failing.
He knelt by her side, and she, bending forward with modest grace, gave him the sweetness of her lips.
The storm still raged; nothing was to be seen beyond a few yards through the white whirl. As Kingcote struggled against it with bent head, a carriage passed him, moving, silently over the snow; it was bringing Mrs.. Stratton from church. This made him fear lest he should meet the Vissians near the rectory; he could speak with no one now; there was a voice in his ears which for his life he would not have silenced. He turned off into the trackless park, and walked in a direction which would bring him out at a lonely part of the new road. With a boy’s delight he leapt through the deep snow, and fought his way against the whirlwind. He lost his bearing; the white outlines of the country were irrecognisable; there was nothing for it but to push on, and come out where, he might. It was two hours at least before he at length got into a track that he knew, and which led him homewards. He reached the cottage in complete exhaustion, chilled, feeble with hunger. Unable even to cast off his wet clothing before he had rested, he threw himself into a chair. He laughed; it would be something to tell her when they met again.