“You adorn it. . . . Dear, do not misunderstand
me. All the offering I can bring is too little
for my love.”
“I know,” she murmured, looking up at
him with moist eyes. “I know; and yet—”
“I meant only that you are not used to handling
money or calculating it—as why should you
be?”
“If my lord will only try me!”
“Hey?”
“Of what use is a wife if she may not contrive
for her husband’s good—take thought
for his household? Ah, my dear, these cares are
half a woman’s happiness! . . . I might
make mistakes. Nay, ’tis certain.
I would the house were smaller: in a sense I
would that your wealth were smaller—it
would frighten me less. But something tells
me that, though frightened, I should not fail you.”
He stared down at her, pulling his lip moodily.
“I was thinking,” said he, “to
ask Langton to be my steward. Would you really
choose to be cumbered with all this business?”
She held her breath for a moment; for his question
meant that he had no design to take her with him.
Her face paled a little, but she answered steadily.
“It will at least fill my empty hours. . . .
Better, dear—it will keep you before me
in all the day’s duties; since, though I miss
you, all day long I shall be learning to be a good
wife.”
As she said it her hand went up to her side beneath
her left breast, as something fluttered there, soft
as a bird’s wing stirring. It fluttered
for a moment under her palm, then ceased. The
room had grown strangely still. . . . Yet he
was speaking.
He was saying—“I’ll teach these
good people who’s Head of the Family!”
Ah, yes—“the Family!” Should
she tell him? . . . She bethought her of Mrs.
Harry’s sudden giddiness in the waggon.
Mrs. Harry was now the mother of a lusty boy—Sir
Oliver’s heir, and the Family’s prospective
Head. . . . Should she tell him? . . .
He stooped and kissed her. “Love, you
are pale. I have broken this news too roughly.”
She faltered. “When must you start?”
“In three days. That’s as soon as
the Maryland can take in the rest of her cargo
and clear the customs.”
“They will be busy days for you.”
“Desperately.”
“Yet you must spare me a part of one, and teach
me to keep accounts,” said she, and smiled bravely
albeit her face was wan.
MISCALCULATING WRATH.
Mr. Langton sat in his private apartment by Boston
Quay trying the balance of a malacca cane.
Sir Oliver had sailed a week ago. Mr. Langton
had walked down to the ship with him and taken his
farewell instructions.
“By the way,” said Sir Oliver, “I
want you to make occasion to visit Eagles now and
again, and pay your respects. I shall write to
you as well as to her; and the pair of you can exchange
news from your letters. She likes you.”
