just a beautiful young woman in the flesh.
«I know,» she murmured indefinitely, then paused.
«Oh! say more than that,» he went on with passion. «Say that you love me also.»
«I don’t know,» she replied still more indefinitely.
«But you must; you must. It is impossible that I can love so much and not be loved back again. You must love me. You must marry me, Rose.»
At these words she looked up quickly. So he was going all the way – he meant marriage.
«I have never thought much of love, Andrew, and you are very young to talk of marriage. Also, how could we marry when we have nothing to live on?»
«I have something,» he answered, «a couple of hundred a year or so, and my profession.»
«I’m afraid that won’t be worth much to you for a long while, especially as you have made up your mind to work in Whitechapel where everybody expects to be doctored for nothing.»
Now an idea occurred to Andrew, namely, to tell her that he had other prospects of a sort. He rejected it, however, first because they could not materialize except through the death of others, on which it seemed mean and unworthy to speculate, and secondly for the reason that he shared Dr. Watson’s prejudices about rank – to a certain extent his contempt for it, and in short held the whole business sordid, not mete for discussion with this divine and adorable creature. Perhaps it was the greatest mistake of his life, or the wisest act. It depends in what light it is regarded in view of all that was to come. What could such things matter, he reflected, when love, holy, unalterable love and nothing less was at stake? So of those prospects he said nothing.
«Besides,» went on Rose, who had employed the interval in marshalling her arguments, «there is my father to be considered. If I married, he would be quite alone, and I promised my mother that I would always look after him. I could never break that promise, Andrew, just to please myself.»
«You might look after us both,» he suggested.
She shook her delicate head, and said:
«Three in a house would never agree, especially when both had such claims. You would grow jealous and he would be sore, and what would a poor woman do between you?»
«Then do you refuse me?» he asked bluntly. «Oh! don’t tell me that you refuse me.»
«I never said so,» she replied, looking down. «I must have time to think.»
«Oh! take it then,» he answered. «I can come back to- morrow.»
«You silly, Andrew! I mean a long time, at least a year. So many things happen in a year and by then I should know – my own heart. In a year, too, you would know if you really cared about me. You must remember that in a way I am the first girl you have met, and doubtless you will see others whom you may think more suitable for many reasons and – better- looking.»
«I shall see no others,» he replied sternly.
«Well, even if you do not, surely you would not wish to take advantage of my weakness and inexperience to press me to an irrevocable decision. It would not be like you to do so, because you know that a girl who is openly engaged is always tarnished if after all it should come to nothing – whatever the reason.»
As it happened no argument could have been used more likely to appeal to Andrew. He tarnish Rose? Perish the thought! Sooner would he die.
«I see,» he said. «I never looked at it in that light. Take your year. At the end of it I shall claim you, and you will give me the answer that I want.»
She smiled in a dazzling fashion and avoiding that issue, said:
«Very well, so it is agreed. Meanwhile we will be the dearest of friends and you will say nothing as to an engagement, and I will say nothing even to my father. And now, dear Andrew, good night. I hope you will always think of me as I think of you and come to see me whenever you can. Oh! I never said that you might kiss me again, but after all, one more makes no difference.»
Chapter IV
Somerville Black
It is doubtful whether all London held a happier man than was Andrew that night. Of course he was not finally and openly engaged, but then how good were Rose’s reasons against such a course. How noble and unselfish! She thought of her father as a loving daughter should; she thought of him, Andrew, believing – though what put such a mad idea into her head he could not conceive – that he might wish to change his mind; she thought of what he would feel if by any chance their open betrothal came to an end, and he knew that thereby he had caused her name to be breathed upon; she thought, too, of how he might be hampered if he married very young and without sufficient means. In short, she thought of everybody and everything but herself. Oh! indeed she was a pearl above price, a woman whom a king might be glad to marry, an angel, one almost too good for this world. And she had let him kiss her, not once but often, and he knew – oh! full surely – that never, never would she have allowed this unless her heart told her that he was the one man on earth to whom she wished to give that holy right.
He walked back to Justice Street treading so lightly that figuratively he seemed to float, a precious sensation which is granted occasionally to the young. Mrs. Josky saw him coming from her point of vantage on the doorstep and, like Dr. Somerville Black, at once diagnosed the case.
«He’s been and gone and done it,» she said to herself. «Poor young man!»
Then she fled to prepare the supper.
A little later she arrived with that meal to find Andrew gazing rapturously at the ceiling.
«Anything wrong with the plaster, Mr. West?» she asked, «or are you expecting an angel to come down into Justice Street, because if so, I fancy you will have to wait a long while.»
«I was only thinking, Mrs. Josky.»
«What of? Medicines and such-like?» Then her eye fell upon the rose. «You had better put it in water,» she said, pointing to that flower, «for I think you’ve seen the best of it. Or perhaps you would like to press it, for then, being wired, it will hold together a long time, until you want to throw it away or get another.»
«That’s a good idea,» said Andrew, and going to a shelf he took down a massive medical work (it chanced to be on diseases of the heart), and reverently deposited the rose between the pages.
«Better put some tissue-paper round it,» suggested Mrs. Josky, «or it will stain the pretty picture» (which was one of the pectoral cavity cut open to reveal the organs within).
Again Andrew obeyed while Mrs. Josky watched him gloomily.
«Is that a very rare sort of rose, Mr. West,» she asked while she pretended to arrange the plates, «that you take such particular care of it? Or is there some other reason?»
Andrew could resist no longer. He must communicate his joy, and here was an ideal confidante, one who would triumph with him, and understand.
«There is another reason, Mrs. Josky,» he said solemnly. «This flower means a great deal to me; it is the gift of the lady whom I love.»
«Is it, indeed, Mr. West? Well, it is pretty and it didn’t cost her much, but does the lady love you?»
«Oh!
