Ainslee's Magazine, February 1913 — page 70: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

60 : AINSLEE’S The tone was so sweet, so dear that the threatened tears welled, and splashed over. I remembered a time when he had said those very words to me, a time when I was in trouble, a time when I did not know that he loved me. I seized his hand suddenly and tried to carry it to my lips. “Don’t you dare!” he exclaimed. He caught me in his arms, he kissed me; my lips, my pale cheeks, my eyes, where more tears threatened, while I aban- doned myself to his caress, and just thanked God for living. “Now, what is the trouble?” he asked finally. “Nothing is the trouble, dearest,” I told him. I snuggled my fingers into his, and lay contentedly in his arms. “Sometimes, dear, I get just a bit— scared. Perhaps”’—I gave him a look from under my lashes—“I’m afraid you will cease to love me.” “Kit, you darling!” he said, and— yes, he kissed me again. “Very well, then,’ I laughed. “Just tell me you love me, just once, and we'll talk about the weather.” “T love you,’ he whispered. you, I love you.” It is such moments that beget con- fidences. I wanted awfully to tell him all about that yellow-diamond pendant, and the mysterious man with his terri- ble message about Herbert Callaway, but I had to remember my promise to Barbara; and, no matter. how many humorous things are said about it, to a woman a promise is a sacred thing. If only I had disregarded it, and told him, how much real agony he would have saved us. “Kit,” he said suddenly, “sometimes I, too, get just a little scared. This not having a roof over your dear head, and no if “T love “Money,” I finished, when he didn’t go on. “I don’t like it. easy.” “Why?” I asked. “Surely you don’t think “ He closed my lips with a kiss. “I think nothing but that I want you It keeps me un- to marry me. Will you?” “No,” I replied, and tried to free my- self from his arms. “No, of course not.” He released me suddenly, arose, and, after striding up and down for a while, stopped, and flicked ruinously the del- icate fronds of some rare ferns. “Of course not,’ he repeated finally. “Of course not. You want a wedding, and you're quite right. <A girl always wants to look back upon such things, doesn’t she? Bridesmaids, a white gown, orange blossoms? Well, there’s another way—I can settle some money on your mother.” “Oh!” I exclaimed. ‘Please, please don’t! She would never accept it. You must not offer it. You know there’s a —a possibility that she’s going to ob- ject because—Billy, dearest, you must not do anything to offend her.” He frowned at a most unusual orchid, and gave the blossom a flip that would have caused its owner nervous prostra- tion. “Convention is an asinine thing,” he remarked. “If we were on a desert island, you would be glad to accept food and shelter from me. You wouldn’t think of convention, or of- fense. You’d be thanking God for food and life, not considering the means of obtaining it.” “Ts there anything wrong with you?” I asked. “Yes,” he replied. “I don’t like your going from house to house ca “T’ve been doing it for five years,” I reminded him. . He turned back impatiently and sat down again, “It’s going to stop now,” he said. “And you are going to have your wed- ding, dear, the bridesmaids, the white gown, the orange blossoms. Also, you are going to promise that it shall.be soon. An account will be opened for you in the Mutual Trust to-morrow.” “Billy!” I cried. “Oh! Surely you don’t think I would touch it?” “Dear, my mother ” But I covered my face, now scarlet To-morrow if you will. EORNICLOOOLK< (C@