“It’s all off my face now; it is indeed, George—my cheeks are burning, it’s only that.”
He kissed her on her forehead.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this play, Lilian?”
“As you were away, George—and as I thought you couldn’t return in time to see it,” stammered Lilian. “Well then, I was very wrong! You’ll forgive me, George? Why, the very first hour of your return you can’t refuse me anything.”
This interview was so different from all that Lilian had imagined. She had thought that the demonstration of love would come from him; that she might passively receive the homage of his affection; but the initiative was cast upon her.
“I can see, George, you don’t forgive me about the play.”
“It’s not exactly about the play, Lilian. Mind, I’m not one of those fellows who go beating about the bush—I can’t stand that sort of thing. If I get hold of a story, it may be wrong or it may be right—but I speak it out, and there’s the matter ended one way or the other. Now, Lilian, I’ve heard your cousin, Mr. Scott, is here constantly.”
“Why, George, you’re not jealous of cousin Frank!” exclaimed Lilian laughing. “You goose! who on earth put that idea in your head?”
“Well, Lilian,” replied Newton growing very red, “if there’s no truth in it, there’s no harm in my mentioning it, and then the thing’s off my mind, but—”
“What still a doubt, George!” exclaimed Lilian, piqued. “Now, pray, who told you anything about Frank? Come now, I’m determined to have this kind friend’s name. Frank Scott, indeed! I dare say you’ve been told that he’s been riding a great deal lately with papa and me—that he frequently dines here, well, perhaps three times a week—that I’m very fond of dancing with him, for he valses beautifully. There, George, if you had come to me I would have told you all about him. I suppose nobody ever recollected to mention that papa used to be his guardian? Of course, they quite forgot that small fact. Now, who was it, George?”
“You dear, darling girl!” exclaimed Newton, entirely convinced by Lilian’s frankness. Then he would have folded her in his arms—that embrace of rapturous meeting which was to crown his return to England—but she in her turn withdrew from him.
“Do forgive me, Lilian; you must forgive me.”
“I declare I will know, George—a wicked mischief-making set.”
“Lilian, it would be no good telling, it would only make a stupid affair worse. Now you do forgive me? Just consider, Lilian, I think I’ve grown half mad in wanting to see you again; that’s why the stupid story bothered me so; I couldn’t bear to think of any other person occupying your affection, ever so little. I’m afraid I shan’t explain myself clearly, but you’ll understand my meaning. I tell you honestly, Lilian, that you are all in all to me now. I fell in love with you at first through utter fascination, I was wild to possess your hand at any cost, even with half your heart. I would have stood anything from you then—you might have trampled on me—scorned me, and I should have held to you. When that unfortunate affair took place I was changed. I learnt what true love really means—for better for worse—what comfort there is in the sympathy of a heart which is wholly one’s own. Why, Lilian, at first I should only have felt jealous if I had dreamt that you possessed a feeling for anybody else, yet I should have loved you just the same; but now, Lilian, I can be content with nothing less than your whole heart, every atom, all or none. I could not tell you all this in my letters, but now you see why I was so foolish and stupid about that story.”
Lilian trembled as she listened.
“It’s because I am so changed towards you, Lilian, that I want that old vow of yours again, just for the pleasure of hearing that what I value so deeply now has been mine all along—your hand on it, darling, that you did give me your whole heart.”
He knelt at her chair, and with his greater strength took her hand in his. What was this he asked? An answer must be made at once. It fell to her to make it upon her instant judgment of right and wrong; no time for deliberation. Then she felt her utter weakness. Oh! for only five quiet minutes of Charles Westby’s council and advice.
Newton watched her face, and saw the colour come and go, and the burning tears, and felt her trembling hand.
“No, no, Lilian,” he exclaimed, with vehemence, “you shan’t answer a word; I’m an utter fool with my cursed tongue. The question is an insult. Haven’t I seen you tried by my adversity? Pray forgive me for asking this wretched question. Good God, I bring sadness instead of joy.”
Lilian withdrew her hand from his.
“George, you never asked this question when you made me your offer—”
“No, no, Lilian, let us cease all this foolish talk. Why, I’ve positively prayed for this meeting; it was to be such happiness.”
He would have clasped her in his arms, but she darted from him.
“I dare not let you believe a lie!—my heart can never be wholly yours!”
Newton was utterly unprepared for this reply, although the immediate context possibly indicates the reverse. His question arose from little else than a lover’s capricious fancy, or perhaps a yet lingering doubt concerning Frank Scott.
“Lilian, what is this?—No, it’s impossible!”
She was silent.
Then his resentment rose: “You did accept me, Lilian! Was that honest?”
“No, it was not honest; and God knows I have bitterly repented the act. But, George, you never asked me this question at the time.”
“Pshaw! a wretched quibble!”
“No, no; you begged and prayed of me to be your wife. Did you make the slightest condition? Did you ask anything of me but my consent? I don’t say this to justify myself. I did love you well enough to be your wife; far better than girls