CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE WOOD-CUTTER AND THE PRINCESS.

In a moment John Sinclair is off his horse, and drawing his arm through the reins he approaches Honor.

"Now I am fortunate," he says, putting one foot up on the lower plank of the stile. "I was just wishing for someone to communicate a piece of good news to; and lo! here is someone ready and waiting, as it were."

"I was waiting for a fresh stock of breath after climbing up that hill, Dr. Sinclair, not for you."

"Possibly," he returns, smiling; "but now you are here you will let me tell my news, won't you?"

Then in a few words he tells her of the conversation that has been held that morning by the Mr. Talboys and himself.

"I am so glad!" exclaims Honor, holding out her hand in the impulse of the moment, "and they will be so delighted at home too! You work so hard and are so good to every one, I am sure you thoroughly deserve this good fortune."

"The brothers find serious fault with me for one thing, however," resumes the doctor after a short pause. "They think it is high time I thought of getting married."

"Oh!" says Honor, and suddenly discovering that her hand is still resting in that of Sinclair, she gently draws it away and strokes Jack's velvet nose.

"Yes, they say a doctor ought to be a married man. I think so too. What do _you_ say, Miss Honor?"

"O, I daresay it may be well in some cases, but you have got on very well so far."

"Yes, so far perhaps," and letting the reins drop, that Jack may graze at will, Sinclair seats himself on the stile, a plank below Honor.

"By the by," he says, looking up suddenly, "you remember that story I have often told Daisy, about the wood-cutter and the princess? You must have heard it, because I am sure I have told it some hundreds of times altogether. Well, I have to revise it, to suit her little ladyship's taste. She no longer approves of it as it was. I thought, perhaps, you might help me. First of all the princess, so far as I remember, had no name. I don't think I ever troubled myself about giving her one. Now, what do you think of 'Honoria'--Princess Honoria? I think it sounds well; do you?"

"O yes," replies the girl, laughing a little. "That would do very well, I daresay."

"Well then, do you think 'John' too commonplace a name for the wood-cutter?"

Honor starts a little.

"I think you might find one better suited to a fairy tale," she says quietly.

"Do you? Oh, I think it would do so well. O yes, certainly; his name must be John. You can settle the next question for me. Daisy says the wood-cutter is to ask the princess to marry him. Shall he do so, Honor?"

Poor Honor! She cannot get off the stile, because there sits the doctor below, making her descent practically impossible until he chooses to move; and her broad-brimmed hat, though effectually shading her eyes from the sun, cannot shield her from the earnest eyes looking up so anxiously into her face. She cannot put up her sun-shade either, for both her hands are now imprisoned, and while flushing painfully she tries to withdraw them, she looks away across the fields and says nothing.

"Won't you answer me, Honor?" he says after a minute.

"I--I think it would be a pity for him to ask her," she says in a low voice.

"Why?"

Honor brings her face round again, and with a great effort continues speaking in the light manner in which they began, notwithstanding that her hands are still held tightly.

"Why," she says with a little smile. "Don't you remember that the princess had a lot of brothers and sisters, and--and they might not like her to go away, and she might not think it right to leave them, you know."

"They might marry too," mutters Sinclair gloomily. Then suddenly bending forward again, he says with trembling voice, "Honor, dear child, do not trifle with me. You know that I have loved you for a long, long time, almost ever since I first knew you. But I have been waiting--oh, such a weary waiting!--until I should have something else to offer you besides my worthless self. And now that I _can_ do it, you are not going to disappoint me, dear? Say you will be my wife, Honor."

"O don't, please don't!" cries the girl, trying distractedly to get possession of her own hands again. "O, Dr. Sinclair, I _wish_ you had not asked me!"

"Why?" he asks again quietly.

"Because--because, I cannot bear to seem ungrateful or unkind, and yet I must. O, will you please let me go?"

"I will let you go when you have answered me two questions, Honor," he says, dropping her hands and drawing back. "Will you first tell me why you are obliged to disappoint me?"

Honor struggles bravely to keep back her tears, while she says in a low voice: "I could not leave them, Dr. Sinclair. My mother and sisters and the boys, I mean. Somehow I have never thought of such a thing as marrying for myself."

"Not lately, Honor?"

Honor looks down, but does not answer.

"I promised father, only a little while before he died," she goes on, "that I would always do all I could to help the others."

"But you did not promise him never to marry? Your father would not have exacted such a promise, I am sure. Now, Honor dear, be reasonable. Doris is going to be married, and Molly will follow before very long."

"Molly?" repeats Honor, looking up.

"Yes, of course she will, as soon as young Horton comes home again. Well, there are two off the list. You would not consider the boys so much in the matter, I suppose; and your mother could divide her time between Doris and ourselves. Daisy I have always looked forward to having to live with us. Ah! what would poor little Daisy say if she knew that the princess was refusing to marry the wood-cutter, and to give her that big brother she so much covets! Ah, Honor, dear child, think before you speak again. Don't decide hurriedly, I beseech you. Take a day to consider--two or three, if you will; but remember, that if your final answer is again 'no,' you give me a lifelong sorrow to live down.

"No!" he suddenly adds with an energy that startles Honor and Jack both, "not a _life_-long sorrow, for I shall still hope, even if I have to wait for years. There is only one thing that will rob me of all hope. If you tell me that you cannot care for me, then will I leave you here at once, and I will never open my lips on the subject again."

But Honor, who would rather die than tell an untruth, cannot tell him anything of the kind, and so she turns a little reproachful look upon him, shaking her head sadly, and as it droops lower and lower two great tears fall upon the hands which are now again holding hers in a firm grasp.

At the sight of her tears the doctor has instant remorse.

"Forgive me, Honor," he says gently. "I have been too hard on you; I am a selfish fellow, and now I have distressed you."

But Honor, who is still crying quietly, again shakes her head, and in a whisper that he can hardly hear she says:

"No, no, you have not. Please, do not think that. I--I am crying for, for happiness, I think. But oh, I am so sorry too! _Please_, let me get my handkerchief!"

What would have been the result of this somewhat contradictory statement, it would be perhaps rash to speculate upon, judging by the look of happiness which suddenly overspreads the doctor's face. But at this critical moment a small urchin turns the corner of the lane and slowly comes into sight. He holds a tin-can in one hand and something tied up in a red-cotton handkerchief in the other--presumably his dinner. The fact of coming upon the party at the stile so suddenly and unexpectedly appears to embarrass him exceedingly, for he stands as if rooted to the spot, gaping and staring, first at the horse, then at Sinclair, then at Honor; his eyes travelling back again in reversed order, and finally resting on Jack, with whom he seems struck with admiration. All chance of private conversation being apparently at an end, John Sinclair rises, and first possessing himself of Honor's basket, holds out his hand and helps her down from the stile with elaborate politeness. Then once more slipping the reins over his arm, he retraces his steps (Jack meekly following, though it is the opposite direction from home), and walks slowly along by Honor's side until they reach the gate of the Rookery.

When Honor enters the house it is with a confused sense of having conceded so far as to make three distinct promises to Dr. John Sinclair. One is that should Molly marry some day in the far distant future, she, Honor, shall consider herself pledged to become Mrs. Sinclair, at a moment's notice. The second is that she shall straightway inform her mother of what has passed between them, as he intends calling that evening to speak to Mrs. Merivale on the subject himself.

The third concession (and Honor blushes when she thinks of it) is that "Dr. Sinclair" is to be dropped from that time forth, and that she is to call him simply "John" for the future. Honor, however, privately resolves to call him nothing, if she can avoid doing otherwise, as a way out of the difficulty.

They are all seated at the dinner-table when she enters the room, Doris at the head carving, for which Honor is devoutly thankful, feeling possibly that in her present state of confusion she would not know a shoulder of mutton from a round of beef. Mrs. Merivale is at the other end of the table.

"You _are_ late," says Doris, brandishing the carving-knife. "Which will you have, Honor, hashed mutton or cold beef?"

"Cold mutton, please," replies Honor, and Doris, staring a little, begins to carve her some beef, thinking to herself that the hot sun has turned her sister's head a little.

Dick presently pushes the salad over.

"No, thanks," says Honor absently; and at that Dick arrests the progress of the fork which is half-way to his mouth, and laying it down again exclaims:

"Why, what is the matter with Honor? She is as red as a poppy; she calls beef mutton and refuses salad in the same breath!"

"Mind your own business and don't tease!" says Molly, who had caught sight of the doctor with Honor at the gate, and has her own private opinion as to her sister's embarrassment. "Eat your dinner, Dick, and get back to your lessons. That's the best thing you can do. Can't you see," leaning over and helping herself to more salad, "that Honor is done up with the heat? I really thought I should have collapsed with it myself this morning when I was coming home, down that hot, glaring, dusty road. What did Lancelot say in his letter this morning, Doris?"

Honor looks gratefully at her younger sister, and having had time to recover herself, she tries to talk and to make a pretence of eating, though the chief part of her meat is surreptitiously received by Timothy under the table.

The conversation at length becomes general, and is chiefly about the ball, which is no further off now than the next evening.

Later on in the day Lady Woodhouse is to arrive, she having promised to chaperone her three nieces to the ball.