Yes, this, he swore, was her world and her dominion: of this paradise, this shining universe wrought of spun silk and melting harmonies, this pattern of sweet sound, these rhyming silences, this art that could distil intoxication from the very dregs of human melancholy: of this she was queen. As he listened, and in the pause that followed his listening, he dreamed himself to be sharing that dominion with her, all the heartache of the world forgotten, or remembered only that it might enhance their joy by contrast, as on summer days we sharpen our delight in birds and flowers and grass and golden sky by recollections of winter. And still, as he half-knew, he was weaving—of her looks, her graces, her accomplishments—a fantasy that should screen him, till he had courage enough to face it, from the loveliness, dimly surmised, of the real Celia, the living and secret heart. He was not new to gallantry, but he was new to love; his occasional amours had brought no ease to the hidden hunger that lived in him, had brought indeed nothing but a half-despised pleasure and a dull disillusionment. He had never knowingly desired, as now he desired, an intimate communion of the spirit; or at least had never been drawn, as now he was being drawn, into the persuasion that this glory was perhaps imminent. It was this hope, and the fear shadowing it, that made him tremble and falter; made him, at the supper table, first garrulous, talking much of his interest in Dr Humphrey’s researches, and then tongue-tied, so that Celia was moved to tease him into speech again. He became stern with himself, and formed an inflexible resolve; yet when, an hour later, in the music-room, the old doctor rose from his chair and with a mumbled apology went off to the studies he could no longer resist, leaving the two young people alone together, Celia’s lover fell a-trembling again, telling himself, with desperate resolution: Before we leave this room I shall have asked her to marry me. And she will have said—what? Conjecture bereaved him of breath and made his heart gallop. If he won her, the world would burst into flower and flame; if he failed, there were no words that could describe the desolation that would engulf him.
‘Another song,’ he pleaded. And he came close to where she sat, that he might lead her to the instrument.
With a half shrug she rose, placed her hand lightly in his arm, walked the three necessary steps, and sat down at the keyboard.
‘Perhaps, Mr Marden, you would prefer something of a newer fashion this time?’
He did not hear her; or, hearing, did not understand. For he was suddenly in the throes of a gigantic struggle. He had forgotten his request that she should sing. He was unaware that she had asked him a question and awaited the answer. Everything was vanished from his mind except the task that tormented it and the remote vision that was the goal of its striving. He stood stiff and straight, and almost angry, with his gaze fixed on the wall opposite him.
And he said, like a boy repeating a lesson: ‘Madam, I have Dr Humphrey’s permission to ask your hand in marriage.’
It seemed that an age passed, an age of silence and terror and expectation, before he could bring himself to glance at her. And then it was too late to read her answer, unless anything of significance could be read in her drooping posture, hands in lap, eyes downcast: just such a posture as had startled him earlier in the day by its beauty and bravery. Despite his fever, his liquefying knees, his parched mouth, he contrived to speak again, addressing her bowed head.
‘I hope . . . may I hope . . .’ But this was sheer arrogance: how dared he hope anything! ‘Miss Humphrey, this silence is torture. Your father, I say, consents to my . . . my asking . . . in short . . .’ But his ‘in short’ proved very long indeed; for without a sign from her he could not go on.
At last she looked up, with a whimsical half-wry smile. ‘Well, Mr Marden? My father . . . ?’
‘Consents,’ said Marden eagerly. ‘I have . . . I have his permission to address you. If I may speak . . .’
‘Indeed, sir,’ she cried, with a little laugh, ‘I am waiting for you to speak. You have my father’s permission, you say. And now you have mine. I am all attention.’
‘Ah, you are laughing at me.’ But, despite that or because of it, he was more at ease. ‘But I’m resolved to tell you that I love you, that I am your devoted slave, and that I shall count myself the happiest man in the world if you will be my wife. . . . Oh Celia, I’m no hand at making speeches——’
‘On the contrary, Mr Marden, you make them very prettily. I find you are full of unsuspected talent.’