mira’s interests were my interests now.

her sudden departure from new york had rendered it impossible to communicate by letter with her aunt. when the vessel reached liverpool, my first proceeding was to send a telegraphic message, in her name, to miss urban: ‘expect me by the afternoon train; explanations when we meet.’ i begged hard to be allowed to travel with her. in this case i deserved a refusal, and i got what i deserved.

‘it is quite bad enough,’ mira said, ‘for me to take miss urban by surprise. i must not venture to bring a stranger with me, until i have secured a welcome for him by telling my aunt of our marriage engagement. when she has heard all that i can say in your favour, expect a letter from me with an invitation.’

‘may i hope for your letter to-morrow?’

she smiled at my impatience. ‘i will do all i can,’ she said kindly, ‘to hurry my aunt.’

some people, as i have heard, feel presentiments of evil when unexpected troubles are lying in wait for them. no such forebodings weighed on mira’s mind or on mine. when i put her into the railway carriage, she asked if i had any message for her aunt. i sent my love. she laughed over my audacious familiarity, as gaily as a child.

the next day came, and brought with it no letter. i tried to quiet my impatience by anticipating the arrival of a telegram. the day wore on to evening, and no telegram appeared.

my first impulse was to follow mira, without waiting for a formal invitation from her aunt. on reflection, however, i felt that such a headlong proceeding as this might perhaps injure me in miss urban’s estimation. there was nothing for it but to practise self-restraint, and hope to find myself rewarded on the next morning.

i was up and ready at the door of the lodging to take my expected letter from the postman’s hand. there were letters for other people in the house — nothing had arrived for me. for two hours more i waited on the chance of getting a telegram, and still waited in vain. my suspense and anxiety were no longer to be trifled with. come what might of it, i resolved to follow mira to her aunt’s house.

there was no difficulty in discovering miss urban. everybody at lewk-bircot knew the schoolmistress’s spacious and handsome establishment for young ladies. the fear had come to me, in the railway, that mira might not have met with the reception which she had anticipated, and might have left her aunt, under a sense of injury only too natural in a high-spirited young woman. in horrid doubt, i asked if miss ringmore was at home. when the man servant said ‘yes, sir,’ so great was my sense of relief that i protest i could have hugged him.

i was shown into a little drawing-room, while the servant took my card upstairs. the window looked out on a garden. it was the hour of recreation: the young ladies were amusing themselves. they failed to interest me. the one object i cared to look at was the door of the room. at last it was opened; suddenly, violently opened. mira came in with such an altered expression in her face, such a singular mingling in her eyes and confusion in her manner, that i stood like a fool, looking at her in silence. she was the first to speak.

‘why have you come here?’ that was what she said to me.

a man of my temper, finding himself treated in this way by any woman — and especially when she is a woman whom he adores — feels the serious necessity of preserving his self-control. instead of complaining of the ungracious welcome that i had received, i told her how i had waited, and what i had suffered: and i said in conclusion: ‘surely, you might make some allowance for the anxieties of a man who loves you, left without news of you.’

you might have been content with writing to me,’ she answered.

‘i couldn’t have waited for the reply.’

‘why not?’

‘because your silence alarmed me. come, come, mira! speak as plainly to me as i have spoken to you. i appear to have arrived at an unfortunate time. is your aunt ill?’

‘no.’

‘does she object to your marrying me?’

‘she is too kind and too just to object to a person whom she has never seen.’

that something had gone wrong nevertheless, and that there were reasons for not letting me know what it was, admitted by this time of no doubt. i took mira’s hand, led her to the sofa, and made her sit down by me. then i ventured on one more inquiry, the last.

‘have you changed your mind?’ i asked her. ‘are you sorry you promised to be my wife?’

all her own pretty self came back in an instant. she put her arm round my neck, and rested her head on my shoulder, and began to cry. how would a landsman have taken such an answer as this? a sailor received it with gratitude; repaid it with kisses; and then remembered what was due to his dear’s peace of mind.

‘it’s plain to me,’ i said, ‘that i ought not to have come here without first asking leave. let me set that right. my heart’s at ease about you now: i’ll go back again at once, and wait for our next meeting till you allow of it.’ she looked at me, surprised to find that i was such a biddable man. i said: ‘my darling, i will do anything to please you; and whether you choose to tell me your secrets, or whether you prefer keeping them to yourself, will make no difference to me. i shall believe in you all the same.’

she came close to me, and laid her hands on my shoulders. her hands trembled.

‘suppose,’ she said, ‘that you see things and hear things which you don’t understand, will your confidence in me take my good faith for granted, without asking for an explanation?’

‘i won’t even wish for an explanation.’

somewhere or other, i have read of the language of flowers. mira stood up on tiptoe, and thanked me in the language of kisses. i had my hat in my hand ready to go. she took it away.

‘you are to stay here with me,’ she said, ‘and be introduced to my aunt?’

was this pleasant change of purpose a reward? it was that and something more; it proved to be the first of many tests to which my sincerity was submitted. no fear of this troubled me at the time! i was too happy to think of consequences.