"But you work so very, very hard, and earn so little and that
little--"
"I work that I may live, Charmian, and lo! I am alive."
"And dreadfully poor!"
"And ridiculously happy."
"I wonder why?" said she, beginning to draw designs on the page
before her.
"Indeed, though I have asked myself that question frequently
of late, I have as yet found no answer, unless it be my busy,
care-free life, with the warm sun about me and the voice of the
wind in the trees."
"Yes, perhaps that is it."
"And yet I don't know," I went on thoughtfully, "for now I come
to think of it, my life has always been busy and care-free, and I
have always loved the sun and the sound of wind in trees--yet,
like Horace, have asked 'What is Happiness?' and looked for it in
vain; and now, here--in this out-of-the-world spot, working as a
village smith, it has come to me all unbidden and unsought--which
is very strange!"
"Yes, Peter," said Charmian, still busy with her pen.
"Upon consideration I think my thanks are due to my uncle for
dying and leaving me penniless."
"Do you mean that he disinherited you?"
"In a way, yes; he left me his whole fortune provided that I
married a certain lady within the year."
"A certain lady?"
"The Lady Sophia Sefton, of Cambourne," said I.
Charmian's pen stopped in the very middle of a letter, and she
bent down to examine what she had been writing.
"Oh!" said she very softly, "the Lady Sophia Sefton of Cambourne?"
"Yes," said I.
"And--your cousin--Sir Maurice--were the conditions the same in
his case?"
"Precisely!"
"Oh!" said Charmian, just as softly as before, "and this lady
--she will not--marry you?"
"No," I answered.
"Are you quite--sure?"
"Certain!--you see, I never intend to ask her."
Charmian suddenly raised her head and looked at me, "Why not, Peter?"
"Because, should I ever marry--a remote contingency, and most
improbable--I am sufficiently self-willed to prefer to exert my
own choice in the matter; moreover, this lady is a celebrated
toast, and it would be most repugnant to me that my wife's name
should ever have been bandied from mouth to mouth, and hiccoughed
out over slopping wineglasses--"
The pen slipped from Charmian's fingers to the floor, and before
I could pick it up she had forestalled me, so that when she
raised her head she was flushed with stooping.