Part 8 (2/2)

'Oh, I beg your pardon, sir,' she said, not looking at me with the blunt frankness of childhood, as the little woman of the old days used to do, but drooping her eyes. 'I didn't see you.'

'But _I_ saw _you_, Winifred; I have been watching you for the last quarter of an hour.'

'Oh, you never have!' said she, in distress; 'what could you have thought? I was only trying to cheer up poor Snap, who is out of sorts. What a mad romp you must have thought me, sir!'

'Why, what's the matter with Snap?'

'I don't know. Poor Snap' (stooping down to fondle him, and at the same time to hide her face from me, for she was talking against time to conceal her great confusion and agitation at seeing me. _That_ was perceptible enough.)

Then she remembered she was hatless.

'Oh dear, where's my hat?' said she, looking round. I had picked up the hat before accosting her, and it was now dangling behind me. I, too, began talking against time, for the beating of my heart began again at the thought of what I was going to say and do. 'Hat!' I said; 'do _you_ wear hats, Winifred? I should as soon have thought of hearing the Queen of the Tylwyth Teg ask for her hat as you, after such goings-on as those I have just been witnessing. You see I have not forgotten the Welsh you taught me.'

'Oh, but my hat--where is it?' cried she, vexed and sorely ashamed.

So different from the unblenching child who loved to stand hatless and feel the rain-drops on her bare head!

'Well, Winifred, I've found a hat on the sand,' I said; 'here it is.'

'Thank you, sir,' said she, and stretched out her hand for it.

'No,' said I, 'I don't for one moment believe in its belonging to you, any more than it belongs to the Queen of the ”Fair People.” But if you'll let me put it on your head I'll give you the hat I've found,' and with a rapid movement I advanced and put it on her head.

I had meant to seize that moment for saying what I had to say, but was obliged to wait.

An expression of such genuine distress overspread her face, that I regretted having taken the liberty with her. Her bearing altogether was puzzling me. She seemed instinctively to feel as I felt, that raillery was the only possible att.i.tude to take up in a situation so extremely romantic--a meeting on the sands at night between me and her who was neither child nor woman--and yet she seemed distressed at the raillery.

Embarra.s.sment was rapidly coming between us.

There was a brief silence, during which Winifred seemed trying to move away from me.

'Did you--did you see me from the cliffs, sir, am; come down?' said Winifred.

'Winifred,' said I, 'the polite thing to say would be ”Yes”; but you know ”Fighting Hal” never was remarkable for politeness, so I will say frankly that did not come down from the cliff's on seeing you.

But when I did see you, I wasn't very likely to return without speaking to you.'

'I am locked out,' said Winifred, in explanation of her moonlight ramble. 'My father went off to Dullingham with the key in his pocket while I and Snap were in the garden, so we have to wait till his return. Good-night, sir,' and she gave me her hand. I seemed to feel the fingers around my heart, and knew that I was turning very pale.

'The same little sunburnt fingers.' I said, as I retained them in mine 'just the same, Winifred! But it's not ”good-night” yet. No, no, it's not good-night yet; and, Winifred if you dare to call me ”sir”

again, I declare I'll kiss you where you stand. I will, Winifred.

I'll put my arms right round that slender waist and kiss you under that moon, as sure as you stand on these sands.'

'Then I will not call you ”sir.”' said Winifred laughingly.

'Certainly I will not call you ”sir,” if that is to be the penalty.'

'Winifred,' said I, 'the last time that I remember to have heard you say ”certainly” was on this very spot. You then p.r.o.nounced it ”certumly,” and that was when I asked you if I might be your lover.

You said ”certumly” on that occasion without the least hesitation.'

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