How to Cook Husbands Part 10

"You are more than worthy of what I have to offer, which is myself, and all that I have."

"Don't!" I cried again; "don't say anything more! Let us imagine this unsaid!"

"Such words can never be recalled," he said gravely.

"They must be," I persisted; "I cannot accept! I have nothing to give in return!"

A look of disappointment came over his face, and if I mistake not, it was shaded with displeasure. "I hardly expected this, Miss Leigh, I have hardly been led to expect this."

"I know what you mean, Mr. Gregory," I replied, more calmly than I had spoken before; "I know that I have accepted your attentions-you have had every reason to expect a different answer. I'll not try to deceive you, or keep anything from you. I'll tell you that I have not been trifling.

I have understood you for some time--"

He interrupted me here.

"Yes, you must have done so; my attentions to you could have but one interpretation, if I were a man of honor, and you knew I was that."

"I did, indeed," I exclaimed. And then my mind went, with a flash like lightning, to Randolph Chance, and I felt a sudden resentment. Had not he shown me attentions that no man of honor can bestow upon a woman, unless he wishes to make her his wife? Why had he left me in this strait? Why had he not spoken out? Why had he not claimed before the world that which he had taken such pains to win? I was uncertain about Randolph Chance; I had never been uncertain about Mr. Gregory. Why?

Because I had perfect confidence in his honor. Was he not the better man-the more trustworthy? Why could I not marry him? I loved another man. A wave of shame and anger swept my face.

"I have all along been expecting to marry you. I have not been trifling," I cried out.

He stepped forward, and took my hand. It was as cold as ice.

"What is it then, Constance, that has changed you? Have I done anything since your illness to make you think less of me?"

I trembled from head to foot, and my lips were so stiff and dry that they scarce would do my bidding. I must have spoken very indistinctly.

"No-no," I said slowly; "I will tell you everything-I have done you a wrong, an unintentional wrong, but I will do penance-I have seen myself to-night-" I paused here; Mr. Gregory was a practical man; had I told him that a vision had changed my att.i.tude, he would have thought me insane. I myself had begun to entertain doubts as to my sanity. "I know myself now," I faltered, "I know my heart-I love another man."

Mr. Gregory rose, and began pacing the floor.

"This surprises me greatly," he said at length; "there must have been another courts.h.i.+p-it would seem that you must have known something of how matters were tending."

"I have known nothing until to-night. There has been no courts.h.i.+p, in the ordinary acceptation of that word-I'll tell you all, even if it humbles me completely, as a penalty for what I have done to you. The man I love-" I could feel the blood mantling my face and neck, "has never addressed me."

Mr. Gregory paused, and looked at me.

"This is extraordinary," he said.

"It is-I know it is-it is most of all so to me, for it is wholly unlike what I have been all my life."

"Let us not talk of this any more to-night, Miss Leigh," he said, with evident relief; "I have been wrong to press this matter now, when you are hardly recovered. You are not yourself. This is something transitory, no doubt. Later on, you may feel differently."

"No, no!" I exclaimed eagerly, "now that we have begun, let us say it all. Don't-I beg of you, don't go away with a feeling that I don't know my mind. I am weak and miserable to-night-" here the tears choked my voice, and I all but broke down, "but I am miserable because I have learned my true feeling, and know that I must disappoint--"

I could not go on, and again he sat down beside me and took my hand.

"I cannot understand you," he said simply.

"I can't understand myself," I replied; "but all this is none the less real for that. I have learned of it to-night, but it has existed before; it explains many things in the past year."

"If that is the case, then I must accept your decision as final."

"It is, indeed," I answered briefly.

He rose, and walked the room in silence again; then pausing once more, he said calmly, and with no trace of anger.

"This is the disappointment of my life."

I said nothing. What could I say? To utter any plat.i.tudes about being sorry, would have been to insult him.

"A man cannot live to my age-I am fifty-two, Miss Leigh-without experiencing disappointment, but I have known nothing equal to this."

He paced the room a few moments, and then said:

"This interview must be distressing to you. I am very sorry I brought it about before you were strong and well."

"Say one thing before you go, Mr. Gregory," I cried, "only say that you don't think I have willfully misled you-say that you respect me still."

His face was stirred by a slight quiver, as a placid lake is stirred by an impulse of the evening air.

"You have had, and you always will have my deepest respect, and my deepest affection."

He took my hand silently, and then quietly left the room.

And I sat there until I heard the front door close. Then I went upstairs, but I remember nothing after reaching the first landing.

They found me lying there. They said I must have fainted.

X

I was badly upset for several days. For a time I resolutely put all thought of what had occurred from my mind, but as soon as I felt able, I sat down, with the whole matter before me, as it were, and deliberately looked it in the face. I think I never felt more inane in my life than when I remembered my folly, as I now regarded it. All that saved me from utter self-abas.e.m.e.nt was the fact that it had occurred at a time when I was at such a low ebb physically, by reason of illness. I determined to try to forget it, as speedily as possible. But, however keenly I felt the humiliation and folly of my emotion upon that strange night, it never occurred to me to waver, when recalling my decision to bring matters between Mr. Gregory and myself to an end. My refusal of him had been brought about by one cause, and only one-that I fully realized; and now that I had repudiated the cause, I might have been expected to reconsider the refusal. But I did not.

Soon after I was up and about once more, I learned that my little friend had not sent the flowers. I thought-no, I did not think! but I cherished secretly a-well, no! I cherished _nothing_ in secret or in public!

I learned something else, soon after getting up, and this was that a story was going the rounds to the effect that Mr. Gregory had broken our engagement-and my disappointment had well-nigh occasioned me a relapse.

But in a twinkling, almost before I had time to get indignant, Mrs.

Catlin was running about, telling everybody that Mr. Gregory had confided in her, in strictest confidence, the truth of the matter, which was that I had ended the affair, and not he.

I was much moved by this manly act on Mr. Gregory's part. He showed his shrewdness, too; he could not announce this in public, or go to people one by one, so he confided it to Mrs. Catlin, and told her not to tell.

One Sabbath evening about ten o'clock, I began to lock up the house.

Early retirement is something all but unknown to me, but that night, having no particular reason for sitting up, I was about to indulge in it as a novelty.