Chapter 23: The Way He Told Her

Miss Marjorie Lindon tells the Tale

I am the happiest woman in the world! I wonder how many women have said that of themselves in their time, —but I am. Paul has told me that he loves me. How long I have made inward confession of my love for him, I should be ashamed to say. It sounds prosaic, but I believe it is a fact that the first stirring of my pulses was caused by the report of a speech of his which I read in the Times. It was on the Eight Hours’ Bill. Papa was most unflattering. He said that he was an oily spouter, an ignorant agitator, an irresponsible firebrand, and a good deal more to the same effect. I remember very well how papa fidgeted with the paper, declaring that it read even worse than it had sounded, and goodness knew that it had sounded bad enough. He was so very emphatic that when he had gone I thought I would see what all the pother was about, and read the speech for myself. So I read it. It affected me quite differently. The speaker’s words showed such knowledge, charity, and sympathy that they went straight to my heart.

After that I read everything of Paul Lessingham’s which I came across. And the more I read the more I was impressed. But it was some time before we met. Considering what papa’s opinions were, it was not likely that he would go out of his way to facilitate a meeting. To him, the mere mention of the name was like a red rag to a bull. But at last we did meet. And then I knew that he was stronger, greater, better even than his words. It is so often the other way; one finds that men, and women too, are so apt to put their best, as it were, into their shop windows, that the discovery was as novel as it was delightful.

When the ice was once broken, we often met. I do not know how it was. We did not plan our meetings, —at first, at any rate. Yet we seemed always meeting. Seldom a day passed on which we did not meet, —sometimes twice or thrice. It was odd how we were always coming across each other in the most unlikely places. I believe we did not notice it at the time, but looking back I can see that we must have managed our engagements so that somewhere, somehow, we should be certain to have an opportunity of exchanging half a dozen words. Those constant encounters could not have all been chance ones.

But I never supposed he loved me, —never. I am not even sure that, for some time, I was aware that I loved him. We were great on friendship, both of us.—I was quite aware that I was his friend, —that he regarded me as his friend; he told me so more than once.

‘I tell you this,’ he would say, referring to this, that, or the other, ‘because I know that, in speaking to you, I am speaking to a friend.’