One Maid's Mischief. Fenn George Manville

is so attentive; and she seemed quite annoyed yesterday when the doctor spent so long feeling my pulse and talking his physic jargon to me. And – oh, Grey, hush! Come gently – here, beside this curtain! Don’t let them see you! What a discovery! Let’s go and fetch the Reverend Arthur to see as well.”

      “Oh, Helen, how wild you are! What do you mean?”

      “That!” whispered Helen, catching her schoolfellow tightly by the arm as she wrenched her into position, so that she could look out of the little flower-decked window. “What do I mean? Why that! See there!”

      Volume One – Chapter Nine.

      “I am Forty-Four.”

      There was very little to see; and if Grey Stuart had accidentally seen what passed with unbiased eyes, she would merely have noted that, as Dr Bolter encountered Miss Rosebury at the gate, he shook hands warmly, paused for a moment, and then raised one of the lady’s soft, plump little hands to his lips.

      Grey would not have felt surprised. Why should she? The Reverend Arthur Rosebury was Dr Bolter’s oldest and dearest friend, to whom the Rosebury’s were under great obligations; and there was nothing to Grey Stuart’s eyes strange in this warm display of friendship.

      Helen gave the bias to her thoughts as she laughingly exclaimed:

      “Then the silly little woman was jealous of him yesterday. Oh, do look, Grey! Did you ever see anything so absurd! They are just like a pair of little round elderly doves. You see if the doctor does not propose.”

      “What nonsense, Helen!” cried Grey, reproachfully. “You are always talking and thinking of such things as that. Miss Rosebury and Dr Bolter are very old friends.”

      “That they are not. They never met till a few weeks ago; and perhaps, madam, the time may come when you will talk and think about such things as much as I.”

      Certainly there was little more to justify Helen Perowne’s remark as the doctor and Miss Rosebury came along the garden path, unless the unusual flush in the lady’s cheek was the effect of the heat of the sun.

      But Helen Perowne was right, nevertheless, for a strange tumult was going on in little Miss Rosebury’s breast.

      She knew that Dr Bolter, although he had not said a word, was day by day becoming more and more impressive and almost tender in his way towards her.

      He lowered his voice when he spoke, and was always so deeply concerned about her health, that more than once her heart had been guilty of so peculiar a flutter that she had been quite angry with herself; going to her own room, taking herself roundly to task, and asking whether, after living to beyond forty, she ought ever for a moment to dream of becoming different from what she was.

      That very day, after feeling very much agitated by Dr Bolter’s gravely-tender salute at the gate, she was completely taken by surprise.

      For towards evening, when the Reverend Arthur had asked Helen if she would take a turn round the garden, and that young lady had risen with graceful dignity, and asked Grey to be their companion, Miss Rosebury and the doctor were left in the drawing-room alone.

      The little lady’s soul had risen in opposition to her brother’s request to Helen, and she had been about to rise and say that she too would go, when she was quite disarmed by Helen herself asking Grey to accompany them, and she sank back in her seat with a satisfied sigh.

      “I declare the wicked thing is trying to lead poor Arthur on; and he is so weak and foolish that he might be brought to make himself uncomfortable about her.”

      She sat thinking for a few moments as the girls left the room, and then settled herself in her chair with a sigh.

      “It is all nonsense,” she said to herself; “Arthur is like me – too old now ever to let such folly trouble his breast.”

      A loud snap made her start as Dr Bolter closed his cigar-case after spending some time in selecting a cigar, one which he had made up his mind to smoke in the garden.

      Just then their eyes met, and the little lady rose, walked to her writing-table, took a brass box from a drawer, struck a match, and advanced with it in her fingers towards the doctor.

      He replaced his cigar-case, and held out one hand for the match, took it, and blew it out before throwing it from the open window.

      “Was it not a good one?” said Miss Rosebury, beginning to tremble.

      “No,” he said, quickly, as he thrust the cigar into his waistcoat pocket; “and I could not smoke here.”

      As he spoke he took the little lady’s hand in his left and looked pleadingly in her face.

      “Dr Bolter!” she exclaimed; and there was anger in her tone.

      “Don’t – don’t,” he exclaimed, huskily, and as if involuntarily his forefinger was pressed upon her wrist – “don’t be agitated Miss Rosebury. Greatly accelerated pulse – almost feverish. Will you sit down?”

      Trembling, and with her face scarlet, he led the little lady to the couch, where, snatching her hand away, she sank down, caught her handkerchief from her pocket, covered her face with it, and burst into tears.

      “What have I done?” he cried. “Miss Rosebury – Miss Rosebury – I meant to say – I wished to speak – everything gone from me – half dumb – my dear Mary Rosebury – Mary – I love you with all my heart!”

      As he spoke he plumped down upon his knees before her and tried to remove her hands from her face.

      For a few moments she resisted, but at last she let them rest in his, and he seemed to gain courage and went on:

      “It seemed so easy to tell you this; but I, who have seen death in every form, and been under fire a dozen times, feel now as weak as a girl. Mary, dear Mary, will you be my wife?”

      “Oh, Dr Bolter, pray get up, it is impossible. You must be mad,” she sobbed. “I must be mad to let you say it.”

      “No, no – no, no!” he cried. “If I am mad, though, let me stay so, for I never was so happy in my life.”

      “Pray – pray get up!” she cried, still sobbing bitterly; “it would look so foolish if you were seen kneeling to an old woman like me.”

      “Foolish! to be kneeling and imploring the most amiable, the dearest woman – the best sister in the world? Let them see me; let the whole world see me. I am proud to be here begging you – praying you to be my wife.”

      “Oh! no, no, no! It is all nonsense. Oh, Dr Bolter, I – I am forty-four!”

      “Brave – courageous little woman,” he cried, ecstatically, “to tell me out like that! Forty-four!”

      “Turned,” sobbed the little lady; “and I never thought now that anybody would talk to me like this.”

      “I don’t care if you are fifty-four or sixty-four!” cried the little doctor excitedly. “I am not a youth, Mary. I’m fifty, my dear girl; and I’ve been so busy all my life, that, like our dear old Arthur, I have never even thought of such a thing as marriage. But since I have been over here – seen this quiet little home, made so happy by your clever hands – I have learned that, after all, I had a heart, and that if my dear old friend’s sweet sister would look over my faults, my age, my uncouth ways, I should be the happiest of men.”

      “Pray – pray get up, doctor,” said Miss Rosebury sadly.

      “Call me Harry, and I will,” he cried, gallantly.

      “No, no!” she said, softly, and there was something so firm and gentle in her words that he rose at once, took the seat she pointed to by her side, and would have passed his arm round her shapely little waist, but she laid one hand upon his wrist and stayed him.

      “No, Henry Bolter,” she said, firmly; “we are not boy and girl. Let us act like sensible, mature, and thoughtful folk.”

      “My dear,” he said, and the tears stood in his eyes, “I respect and love you more and more. What is there that