“You heard what Emily said.”
“No;—what did she say?”
“She said that it would not be for good that you should speak to me thus.”
“Why not for good? But she is unhappy, and looks gloomily at things.”
“Yes, indeed.”
“But all the world need not be sad forever because she has been unfortunate.”
“Not all the world, Mr. Stanbury;—but you must not be surprised if it affects me.”
“But would that prevent your loving me—if you did love me? But, Nora, I do not expect you to love me—not yet. I do not say that I expect it—ever. But if you would—. Nora, I can do no more than tell you the simple truth. Just listen to me for a minute. You know how I came to be intimate with you all in Curzon Street. The first day I saw you I loved you; and there has come no change yet. It is months now since I first knew that I loved you. Well; I told myself more than once—when I was down at Nuncombe for instance—that I had no right to speak to you. What right can a poor devil like me have, who lives from hand to mouth, to ask such a girl as you to be his wife? And so I said nothing—though it was on my lips every moment that I was there.” Nora remembered at the moment how she had looked to his lips, and had not seen the words there. “But I think there is something unmanly in this. If you cannot give me a grain of hope;—if you tell me that there never can be hope, it is my misfortune. It will be very grievous, but I will bear it. But that will be better than puling and moping about without daring to tell my tale. I am not ashamed of it. I have fallen in love with you, Nora, and I think it best to come for an answer.”
He held out his arms as though he thought that she might perhaps come to him. Indeed he had no idea of any such coming on her part; but she, as she looked at him, almost thought that it was her duty to go. Had she a right to withhold herself from him, she who loved him so dearly? Had he stepped forward and taken her in his arms it might be that all power of refusal would soon have been beyond her power.
“Mr. Stanbury,” she said, “you have confessed yourself that it is impossible.”
“But do you love me;—do you think that it is possible that you should ever love me?”
“You know, Mr. Stanbury, that you should not say anything further. You know that it cannot be.”
“But do you love me?”
“You are ungenerous not to take an answer without driving me to be uncourteous.”
“I do not care for courtesy. Tell me the truth. Can you ever love me? With one word of hope I will wait, and work, and feel myself to be a hero. I will not go till you tell me that you cannot love me.”
“Then I must tell you so.”
“What is it you will tell me, Nora? Speak it. Say it. If I knew that a girl disliked me, nothing should make me press myself upon her. Am I odious to you, Nora?”
“No; not odious—but very, very unfair.”
“I will have the truth if I be ever so unfair,” he said. And by this time probably some inkling of the truth had reached his intelligence. There was already a tear in Nora’s eye, but he did not pity her. She owed it to him to tell him the truth, and he would have it from her if it was to be reached. “Nora,” he said, “listen to me again. All my heart and soul are in this. It is everything to me. If you can love me you are bound to say so. By Jove, I will believe you do unless you swear to me that it is not so!” He was now holding her by the hand and looking closely into her face.
“Mr. Stanbury,” she said, “let me go; pray, pray let me go.”
“Not till you say that you love me. Oh, Nora, I believe that you love me. You do; yes; you do love me. Dearest, dearest Nora, would you not say a word to make me the happiest man in the world?” And now he had his arm round her waist.
“Let me go,” she said, struggling through her tears and covering her face with her hands. “You are very, very wicked. I will never speak to you again. Nay, but you shall let me go!” And then she was out of his arms and had escaped from the room before he had managed to touch her face with his lips.
As he was thinking how he also might escape now—might escape and comfort himself with his triumph—Mrs. Outhouse returned to the chamber. She was very demure, and her manner towards him was considerably changed since she had left the chamber. “Mr. Stanbury,” she said, “this kind of thing mustn’t go any further indeed;—at least not in my house.”
“What kind of thing, Mrs. Outhouse?”
“Well;—what my elder niece has told me. I have not seen Miss Rowley since she left you. I am quite sure she has behaved with discretion.”
“Indeed she has, Mrs. Outhouse.”
“The fact is my nieces are in grief and trouble, and this is no time or place for lovemaking. I am sorry to be uncivil, but I must ask you not to come here any more.”
“I will stay away from this house, certainly, if you bid me.”
“I am very sorry; but I must bid you. Sir Marmaduke will be home in the spring, and if you have anything to say to him of course you can see him.”
Then Hugh Stanbury took his leave of Mrs. Outhouse; but as he went home, again on the knife-board of an omnibus,
