“We practiced those poor young people until they had almost lost their voices,” he told her. “But I was able to tell them at the end of it all that they are the best youth choir I have ever heard. I didnot add the wordsoutside of Wales.But I do believe I spoke the truth anyway. And I told them they were fortunate indeed to have the best accompanists anywhere in the world.”
“But you did not add the wordsoutside of Wales, did you?” Gwyneth said, setting her hands in his.
“They were not necessary,” he told her, laughing. “I claim both you and Ifor for Wales. Did you get your letters written?”
“One of them,” she said. “It is three pages long.”
“Women are a marvel,” he said. “I have to work very hard and use my largest, most sprawling handwriting to achieve six lines.”
She took him into the library after dinner, on the pretext of finding their copy of the poems of William Wordsworth, which he had mentioned while they were eating. She put it into his hands and looked into his face.
“What is it?” he asked, setting the book down on a table beside him without opening it.
“I find myself embarrassed,” she said, clasping her hands at her waist. “You have not actually asked me, and you have not spoken to Dad, or I would have heard about it. But I believe—”
He came to her rescue when she hesitated. “You believe correctly, Gwyneth,” he said. “I do wish to marry you.”
“I want to save you the embarrassment of asking and being rejected, then,” she told him, wishing there were another way to say it. Something less abrupt and harsh. She supposed she could have waited for him to bring up the subject first, but it would have been unfair. “I cannot marry you, Aled. I am sorry. I like you exceedingly well.”
“Ah,” he said. “That dreaded wordlike.I would want more than liking from a wife. It is as well to know now that I would not have it from you. I am sorry too, Gwyneth. Am I right in believing that you did mean to have me even as recently as yesterday?”
“Sometimes love does not work,” she said, “and one tries to forget it and find it with someone else. I wanted to love you, Aled. I thought I did. And the fault isnotin you. It is in me.”
“Your mother mentioned at dinner,” he said, “that Idris went in person to fetch her home after the misadventure with the carriage, and that he left the Earl of Stratton here to keep you company.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Did I hurt you yesterday,” he asked, “when I described him as a morose man?”
“You described what you saw,” she said. “The wars do appear to have hardened him.”
“He would not be a good husband for you, Gwyneth,” he said. “There is coldness and cruelty in that man. He would kill your soul, which is full of music and light.”
She half smiled and looked about the room, more shadow than light with only a single candle burning. “It is fortunate, then,” she said, “that he has not offered to be my husband.” Not in six years, anyway.
“I do beg your pardon,” he said. “I was quite out of line in offering you advice about a man I do not know at all. I take it there is some history between you and Stratton? I appreciate your speaking with me directly in this way. It took some courage. And already I know that my main feeling when I wake up tomorrow will be relief. I am thirty-five years old. I have known and been interested in a number of beautiful women over the years, but I was never tempted to offer marriage to anyone until I met you. I had decided long ago that marriage and I would not suit, but then you tempted me. I believe my earlier decision was the right one, however, and I will feel a bit like a prisoner newly set free in the morning. I am sorry. That is not a very apt comparison.”
“Yes, it is,” she said, though she was not quite sure she believedwhat he had just said. It was possible that he was merely putting a brave face on it. She smiled at him. “Do you wish to take that book to your room, Aled? Or shall I return it to the shelf?”
“I will take it,” he said, picking it up. “I want to find that poem about the daffodils—I wandered lonely as a cloud...Those are the opening words, I believe, and the only ones I can remember exactly. Excepta host of golden daffodils.”
Gwyneth picked up the candlestick and led the way back to the drawing room, where her mother was regaling her father and Idris with bits of news and gossip she had picked up from her lace-making group during the afternoon.
—
The following day, Aled recalled that he had business in London that he really must attend to very soon. The wars were over and the Continent was opening up for travelers and for a resumption of cultural pursuits for all. He had been approached with a tentative invitation to do some conducting in Paris and Vienna and possibly Rome. It was something he would need to discuss in person with certain people.
It all sounded a bit vague to Gwyneth, but her parents were delighted for him. They did agree with Idris, however, that he would be missed.
“But you must stay for church on Sunday, Aled,” her father said. “The choir boys—and girls—sit in the choir stalls, of course, but the rest of the youth choir always sit together in the front pews, and the hymn singing is something to gladden the heart. I can almost imagine that I am back in Wales, where the singing sometimes lifts the roof a good six inches off the church.”
“There is silly you are sometimes, Ifor,” Gwyneth’s mother said, laughing.
But Aled did stay that extra two days and left on Monday after thanking everyone profusely for their hospitality and shaking her father’s and Idris’s hands warmly and kissing both Gwyneth and her mother on the cheek. Gwyneth felt something very close to grief. At any other time and under any other circumstances...
But no. It would always have been a mistake, and Aled deserved far better than a wife who would live to regret marrying him.
“All right, Gwyn?” Idris asked, his arm tight about her shoulders as the carriage disappeared from sight.
