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The Right Man
by
“Don’t! don’t!” he said.
He stepped close to her, as she leaned upon the mantelpiece, all the hardness gone from his face. Had she known it, the battle at that moment might have been hers; for he would have insisted no longer. He was on the brink of abandoning the conflict. But her anguish of weeping possessed her to the exclusion of everything else.
“Oh, Jerry, go away!” she sobbed passionately. “You’re a perfect beast, and I’m another! But I’ll do it, I’ll do it–for your sake, as I would do anything in the world, though it’s quite true that I’d rather starve!”
And Jerry, rather pale, but otherwise complete master of himself, patted her shoulder with a hasty assumption of kindly approval; and told her that he had always known she was a brick.
II
“Heaven knows I don’t aspire to be any particular ornament to society,” said Dick Kenyon modestly. “Never have; though I’ve been pretty well everything else that you can think of, from cow-puncher to millionaire. And I can tell you there’s a dashed deal more fun in being the first than the last of those. Still, I think I could make you comfortable if you would have me; though, if you don’t want to, just say so, and I’ll shunt till further notice.”
It was thus that he made his proposal to the girl of his choice; and no one, hearing it, would have guessed that beneath his calm, even phlegmatic, exterior, the man was in a ferment of anxiety. He spoke with a slight nasal twang that seemed to emphasise his deliberation, and his face was mask-like in its composure. Of beauty he had none.
His eyes were extraordinarily blue, but the lids drooped over them so heavily that his expression was habitually drowsy, even stolid. In build, he was short and thick-set, like a bulldog; and there seemed to be something of a bulldog’s strength in the breadth of his chest, though there was no hint of energy about him to warrant its development.
The girl he addressed did not look at him. She sat perfectly still, with her hands fast clasped together, and her eyes, wide and despairing, fixed upon the fire in front of her. She was wondering desperately how long she could possibly endure it. Yet his last words were somehow not what she had expected from this man whose manner always seemed to hint that at least half of creation was at his sole disposal. They expressed a consideration on his part that she had been far from anticipating. He waited for an interval of several seconds for her to speak. He was standing up on the hearthrug, his ill-proportioned figure thrown into strong relief by the firelight behind him. At last, as she quite failed to answer him, he drew a pace nearer to her.
“Don’t mind me, Miss Trelevan,” he said, in a drawl so exaggerated that she thought it must be intentional. “Take your time. There’s no hurry. I’ve always thought it was a bit hard on a woman to expect her to answer an offer of marriage offhand. Perhaps you’d rather write?”
“No,” she said, rather breathlessly. “No!” Then, after a pause, still more breathlessly: “Won’t you sit down?”
He stepped away from her again, to her infinite relief, and sat down a couple of yards away.
There ensued a most painful silence, during which the battle in the girl’s heart raged fiercely. Then at length she took her resolution in both hands, and faced him. He was not looking at her. He sat quite still, and she fancied that his eyes were closed; but when she spoke he turned his head, and she realised that she had been mistaken.
“I can give you your answer now,” she said, making the greatest effort of her life. “It is–it is–yes.”
She rose with the words, almost as if in preparation for headlong flight. But Dick Kenyon kept his seat. He leaned forward a little, his blue eyes lifted to her face.