Chapter XII

"My little pet, you must decide for yourself."

Philip Stellenthorpe was deeply moved.

"My little pet!" he repeated. "It only seems the other day that you were playing with your toys on the nursery floor. I can't deny, my child, that it would make me very, very happy to give you to such a man--one whom I could trust so absolutely. He would make you very happy, Lily."

"That's what he said," answered Lily, with no ironical intent.

"You must study your own feelings, Lily. Remember that it's a responsibility.... Aubray is a very able man, my child, with a career before him. It's a great honour to be asked to share the life of such a man. You do feel that?"

"Oh yes, Father."

"That's right, darling, that's right. I don't wish to persuade you in any way. At the same time it would make me happier than anything else in the world, now, to see my little Lily married to such a man. It's--it's a wonderful opportunity, Lily. My little motherless girl, living quietly at home, to marry a distinguished man of Aubray's standing, before she's twenty!"

The triumph in Philip's voice, of which he himself seemed to be half ashamed, touched Lily acutely.

He might say, in all sincerity, that he did not wish to persuade her, but he could have found no more effective means of so doing than by his very forbearance.

His wistful pride in the opportunity that he so obviously was longing to see her accept, and the restraint that he put upon himself in order to leave her free, filled Lily with a passionate wish to please him.

She knew that, were she to disappoint him in this, he would not reproach her. Only the mute pathos of a deepened silence, a more constant melancholy, would do that.

"He wants me to be happy, after all," reflected Lily, knowing also that Philip would only see happiness for her in just such a marriage, in just such a life, incapable of believing in the reality of any happiness that he could not personally apprehend.

Nor, indeed, had Lily any specific alternative interpretation of the term to submit to him. Marriage, in spite of Miss Melody, had always appeared to her as the natural goal of woman, and she was young enough to tell herself very seriously that this, her first offer of marriage, might perhaps also prove to be her last. The dread of perpetual maidenhood, in fact, possessed Lily so firmly that she almost found herself urging it to Miss Melody herself, as a reason for accepting Nicholas Aubray. For Miss Melody, interested and incisive as ever, had spoken.

"Childie dear, listen to me. You must weigh the pros and the cons very, very carefully. I'm very glad you take this question seriously, Lily, very glad indeed. Now, dearie, do you know what I recommend? Write it all down, Lily, put it all on to paper. Write down the _For_ and _Against_, just as though it were one of the old school exercises. There's nothing like method, dearie--you know that's what I always say. Do you think me very unromantic?"

In truth, Lily did think so, and she looked apologetically at Miss Melody.

Her old schoolmistress laughed heartily.

"Well, well, it's very natural you should think so, but you must beware of that romantic little head of yours. Do you remember, Lily, when you were leaving school, that I warned you against letting your imagination run away with you? Oh, you've improved since those days, I know--_I_ know. But now, my dear child, you have come to cross-roads, and there must be no mistake here. It's too important. Tell me, what does your father say to you about this?"

"He has been very kind. He hasn't said much. I know he wants me to feel quite free. But, of course, I can't help knowing that he would like it very much, and I should like to please him."

"He would like it very much, would he?" repeated Miss Melody reflectively. "Well, childie, that seems to me a very big item on the side of the Pros. Not as a sole reason for marrying, you understand, or even as a chief one--but simply because your father's judgment of this man is likely to be a very, very sound one. If he likes him so much, and trusts him well enough to want to give you to him, why, then, Lily, I think we may safely take it for granted that he must be a very admirable person. A man is a better judge of another man than we women can ever be, you know."

If Lily, in some undefined way, felt that Miss Melody had failed to touch upon the real point at issue, which in no way concerned the intrinsic worth of Nicholas Aubray--she had too much faith in the voice of external authority, and too little in her own convictions, to pause upon the thought.

"Then there's another thing, you know, dearie. You say he is a good deal older than you are. Well, childie, that seems to me in your case to be a real advantage. You lack backbone, Lily--you know I've always told you so. I should be frightened to think of you at the head of a household without a very, very steady hand behind you, childie. Don't you feel that yourself?"

"Yes, I think I do."

Miss Melody shot out a plump forefinger almost triumphantly.

"There you are, again! _I think I do._ You must _know_, childie dear, not think! Oh, Lily, Lily!"

Miss Melody shook her head and dropped her deep voice. There was humour in her kindly, penetrating eyes.

"It seems to me that a clever, strong-minded man, older than yourself, is the very husband you need, Lily. Tell me--you trust this man?"

"Oh, yes."

"That's the great thing--absolute trust. But there's another question too, dearie--one that only you can answer. Do you care for him?"

Had Lily replied in accordance with her state of mind, she would once more have said, "I think I do."

But she felt that this formula of uncertainty was now barred to her.

"Sometimes I do," she remarked finally.

"Sometimes, sometimes!" repeated Miss Melody in melancholy impatience. "What a half-hearted little person it is! Lily, Lily, either you care for this man or you don't care for him, surely. How can you say 'Sometimes'?"

"There are times when--when he's nicer, and I like him better, than other times," Lily confusedly tried to explain.

Miss Melody's brow cleared.

She laughed.

"And are there no times when you are 'nicer' as you call it, than at other times? We're all human, you know, dearie. You mustn't look for perfection."

Lily had often told herself the same thing, and illogically derived reassurance in hearing from somebody else the truism that had failed to impress her from within by any applicability to her especial need.

"I'm not certain that I'm in love with him," she said timidly.

"You mustn't confuse being 'in love' with loving, childie dear," said Miss Melody.

They looked at one another in silence.

Apparently Miss Melody had no further assistance to give to Lily. Her subsequent counsel was merely repetition, and she concluded it by telling Lily gravely and kindly that nobody could really advise her, or had any right to try to influence her. She must decide for herself.

Lily left Bridgecrap with the complete certainty that the wise and experienced Miss Melody was strongly biased in favour of her pupil's immediate marriage with Nicholas Aubray.

"I shall expect to get news from you soon," said Miss Melody significantly in farewell.

It in no wise mitigated the significance, that she should add with an inscrutable smile:

"One way or the other."

It would fall extremely flat, Lily reflected ruefully, if her news were to be "the other," after all.

The novel sense of her own importance was so agreeable that she felt no more than a passing shock at the discovery that the Hardinges were perfectly aware of Nicholas's proposal.

Ethel Hardinge, after a few brisk preliminaries as to the disadvantages of being motherless, sought candidly to advise Lily.

"There's nothing like first love," said Ethel in a hearty sort of way. "They say nobody marries their first love, but I did, and no two people could be happier than we are, of that I'm certain."

"Then it does last?" said Lily tentatively.

"Being in love? Well, no, dear, not in the same way, of course. One must look at these things sensibly, and yet at the same time without being foolish," said Mrs. Hardinge with clarity. "I'm speaking to you as I should speak to one of my own girlies. You mustn't expect to remain in love for ever and ever."

Lily felt that Cousin Ethel was taking too much for granted.

"But Cousin Ethel, I don't know that I am in love at all, yet."

"Oh! Well, of course, dear--just hand me the white cotton, dear--Sylvia is so hard on her knickers, always----But you do like him very much?"

"Yes, very much."

"He certainly is charming--so utterly unlike most clever people. He's a good deal older than you are--perhaps that's what you're thinking of? Dorothy never looks at them if they're over twenty-five, but then you and she are very different."

"Yes," said Lily dejectedly.

She had an undefined feeling that any possible vestige of romance was being eliminated from her love-affair by all these bright and kindly discussions. She felt more at a loss than ever.

"But, after all, Lily, nobody can make up your mind for you. It's a thing you must really decide entirely for yourself. The scissors, if you wouldn't mind, dear. I should hardly feel justified in talking to you at all, if I wasn't so fond of you, and then you've no mother, poor dear! But I shouldn't dream of influencing you, one way or the other."

There was a pause, and Lily picked up a reel of cotton and handed Mrs. Hardinge the scissors.

"It would give your father the greatest happiness, of course, and he's had a sad life, Lily. He never got over the loss of your mother, as Charlie says. And then if anything happened to him, well, of course, there'd be a home for you and for Kenneth and someone to look after you both. Not that you couldn't always count on us for anything we could do, but nothing can be the same as one's very own belongings. With a husband, you see, there's always somebody _there_."

"That's just what I'm afraid of, in a way," said Lily, at last gathering courage. "I mean that it would be so dreadful if one found one didn't care enough, and yet one was permanently tied."

"But, my dear child," said Mrs. Hardinge earnestly, "there is a love that comes after marriage, you know. Not the same thing as being in love, but something that really lasts. Many a girl who hasn't known whether she was in love or not, or who really isn't in love with the man at first, finds everything quite different once she's really married to him."

Lily listened believingly. Nothing seemed to her more probable than that the married state, about which there hung many mysterious reticences, should operate some startling change of outlook by means unguessed at by the uninitiated.

"Perhaps," suggested Mrs. Hardinge hopefully, "you're more in love than you think you are. Very often girls don't realize things--and then before they know where they are, it's too late, and may mean a life-time of regret."

Thinking this over, it appeared to Lily that Cousin Ethel, who was so kind and knew so much about young girls, held that if one was in love, very likely one didn't know it until after one had married the man and that if one wasn't, it was still worth while marrying him because there was something better than being in love, that came after marriage.

The only remaining alternative seemed to be the life-time of regret.

Having derived no stable satisfaction from the advice that she had already received, Lily began to consider where she could seek for more advice, and involved herself further and further in the endeavour to see truth through the vision of others.

Dorothy Hardinge was crudely positive.

"I wouldn't have him, Lily, if you aren't in love with him. There are sure to be heaps of other men who'll want to marry you. They even want to marry me, and you're a million times prettier than I am, and heaps of men don't care a bit about games. I mean whether one's good at them or not. Of course that's one thing in Mr. Aubray's favour, I suppose--as he's frightfully clever and rather old and lives in London, he wouldn't mind about your being rather bad at games, would he?"

"He doesn't mind at all; he's told me so."

"That's all right then. I suppose you wouldn't tell me what he said when he proposed? I _can't_ imagine him doing it, somehow." Dorothy giggled. "I bet he was very grand and formal."

Lily raised her chin slightly.

She had no desire to hear Dorothy's wit, the elementary form of which was well known to her, expend itself in this direction.

But it was never difficult to change the trend of Dorothy's thoughts.

"You've had a great many people in love with you, haven't you, Dorothy?"

"We hardly ever see a new man down here," said Dorothy discontentedly. "But I must say, I generally have somebody or other to make things amusing--one meets them at tennis, and so on. But of course you know, they don't all propose, or anything like that."

"What happens, then?"

"Well," said Dorothy, in a candid and interested voice, "there are generally what I call the three stages: eyesie-pysie, handy-pandy and footy-wootie. First, one just looks at each other and sort of gets going that way, then they squeeze one's hand whenever they can, and try and get hold of it in the dark, coming home from dances and that sort of thing, and then they stick out their foot under the table or somewhere, and press yours, and you go on talking to other people all the time and looking as if nothing was happening. It's sort of fun in a way, though I wouldn't dare tell Mother about it. She'd say it was vulgar, I suppose."

The same unpleasing adjective also appeared to Lily to be highly applicable.

"No one's ever done that kind of thing with me," she said, without emphasis of any kind.

"I suppose you're not the sort, or else you haven't met enough men. That's what I mean, Lily. I do think it would be a frightful pity to get married right away, before you've had any fun at all. Of course, one couldn't go on with that sort of fooling about after one was married, it wouldn't be playing the game. But I must say it's fun, and I can't see any harm in it, so long as one doesn't take it too seriously. Of course, I shouldn't let things go too far."

"What would you call too far?"

"Well, there are girls who say that a dance isn't any fun, unless one gets--well, kissed, as a matter of fact."

"Oh!" said Lily disgustedly.

"I know it's rather awful, when one says it in cold blood like that; and mind you, I don't go in for it myself, Lily, I really don't. I won't say that no one ever has, but it was a sort of accident, truly it was."

"Didn't you mind?"

"No," said Dorothy, "I can't say I did. Afterwards I sort of felt ashamed of myself because I knew Mother would think it so awful if she ever knew--which God forbid! But it sort of seemed natural, kind of, at the time."

"I don't believe I should ever like it," said Lily with finality.

"I think you ought to give yourself a chance of finding out. It's all very well," said Dorothy argumentatively, "if one's frantically in love with anyone, I suppose one's mad enough to want to be tied up to him for ever and ever. But personally I don't want to fall seriously in love for ages yet. Just have a good time while I'm young and have heaps of great friends, and then perhaps, later on, a real, proper _grande passion_ or whatever they call it, and get married."

"I think one might be rather sorry, then, that there had been other people first," said Lily shyly.

"I think that's sentimental tosh," said Dorothy Hardinge with simple finality.

The verdict disquieted Lily but slightly; nevertheless, Dorothy's wisdom had its effect upon her decision. If eyesie-pysie, handy-pandy and footy-wootie constituted happiness in youth, then better far be married, and to relinquish youth.

Lily felt certain that she had no talent for such a form of enjoyment, and she thought that it must be on this account that no such overtures as those described by Dorothy had ever fallen to her lot. The daughter of Philip Stellenthorpe knew no regret, however, for the deprivation.

She could never afterwards recall with any definite certainty the moment in which she took her final decision. When she found herself betrothed to Nicholas Aubray, it seemed natural enough, and the sense of irrevocability that thenceforth encompassed her, Lily almost welcomed.

No one gave her any advice now. They all congratulated her, and even Dorothy Hardinge, after she saw Lily and Nicholas together, and when Lily, herself awestruck, displayed an emerald and diamond ring and a diamond pendant, said cordially:

"Well, I must say you were right in a way, Lily. The trousseau and the presents and all this fuss about you must be simply too heavenly!"

Lily herself derived unforeseen excitement and pleasure from all these accessories to her engagement, her father's intense gratification and pride in her, the warmly-worded congratulations that she received, and the admiring welcome that her youth and prettiness met with from the bewildering number of new friends and relations to whom Nicholas presented her, even the trousseau frocks and the jewels and the wedding presents, all gave her a dream-like feeling of astonished delight.

She did not doubt any more whether she was in love. There was a glamour over her days that could only mean happiness, and happiness and love were still, to Lily's way of thinking, synonymous.

Sometimes she realized with surprise how impossible it would be now to disappoint all this kindness, and saw herself as much bound to Nicholas as though she were already married to him. And she felt with a certain joyful astonishment, that any lingering doubt must be dispelled by the discovery that the personality of Nicholas Aubray seemed to be far more in harmony with her own as a lover than as a friend.