Part 104 (2/2)

”Not a soul. It's just us. Come.”

I came gladly, only suggesting--”Wait, let me put up a lunch.”

”I'll wait just long enough for you to put on knickers and a short skirt,” said he. ”The lunch is all in the basket on my back. I know how long it takes for you women to 'put up' sandwiches and things.”

We were off in ten minutes, light-footed and happy, and the day was all that could be asked. He brought a perfect lunch, too, and had made it all himself. I confess it tasted better to me than my own cooking; but perhaps that was the climb.

When we were nearly down we stopped by a spring on a broad ledge, and supped, making tea as he liked to do out-of-doors. We saw the round sun setting at one end of a world view, and the round moon rising at the other; calmly s.h.i.+ning each on each.

And then he asked me to be his wife.--

We were very happy.

”But there's a condition!” said he all at once, sitting up straight and looking very fierce. ”You mustn't cook!”

”What!” said I. ”Mustn't cook?”

”No,” said he, ”you must give it up--for my sake.”

I stared at him dumbly.

”Yes, I know all about it,” he went on, ”Lois told me. I've seen a good deal of Lois--since you've taken to cooking. And since I would talk about you, naturally I learned a lot. She told me how you were brought up, and how strong your domestic instincts were--but bless your artist soul dear girl, you have some others!” Then he smiled rather queerly and murmured, ”surely in vain the net is spread in the sight of any bird.”

”I've watched you, dear, all summer;” he went on, ”it doesn't agree with you.

”Of course the things taste good--but so do my things! I'm a good cook myself. My father was a cook, for years--at good wages. I'm used to it you see.

”One summer when I was hard up I cooked for a living--and saved money instead of starving.”

”O ho!” said I, ”that accounts for the tea--and the lunch!”

”And lots of other things,” said he. ”But you haven't done half as much of your lovely work since you started this kitchen business, and--you'll forgive me, dear--it hasn't been as good. Your work is quite too good to lose; it is a beautiful and distinctive art, and I don't want you to let it go. What would you think of me if I gave up my hard long years of writing for the easy competence of a well-paid cook!”

I was still too happy to think very clearly. I just sat and looked at him. ”But you want to marry me?” I said.

”I want to marry you, Malda,--because I love you--because you are young and strong and beautiful--because you are wild and sweet and--fragrant, and--elusive, like the wild flowers you love. Because you are so truly an artist in your special way, seeing beauty and giving it to others. I love you because of all this, because you are rational and highminded and capable of friends.h.i.+p,--and in spite of your cooking!”

”But--how do you want to live?”

”As we did here--at first,” he said. ”There was peace, exquisite silence. There was beauty--nothing but beauty. There were the clean wood odors and flowers and fragrances and sweet wild wind. And there was you--your fair self, always delicately dressed, with white firm fingers sure of touch in delicate true work. I loved you then. When you took to cooking it jarred on me. I have been a cook, I tell you, and I know what it is. I hated it--to see my wood-flower in a kitchen.

But Lois told me about how you were brought up to it and loved it--and I said to myself, 'I love this woman; I will wait and see if I love her even as a cook.' And I do, Darling: I withdraw the condition. I will love you always, even if you insist on being my cook for life!”

”O I don't insist!” I cried. ”I don't want to cook--I want to draw!

But I thought--Lois said--How she has misunderstood you!”

”It is not true, always, my dear,” said he, ”that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach; at least it's not the only way. Lois doesn't know everything, she is young yet! And perhaps for my sake you can give it up. Can you sweet?”

Could I? Could I? Was there ever a man like this?

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