When a girl first receives the homage of a man’s love, and receives it from one whom, whether she loves him or not, she thoroughly respects, her earliest feeling is one of victory—such a feeling as warmed the heart of a conqueror in the Olympian games. He is the spoil of her spear, the fruit of her prowess, the quarry brought down by her own bow and arrow. She, too, by some power of her own which she is hitherto quite unable to analyze, has stricken a man to the very heart, so as to compel him for the moment to follow wherever she may lead him. So it was with Isabel Lownd as she stood there, conscious of the eager gaze which was fixed upon her face, and fully alive to the anxious tones of her lover’s voice. And yet she could only deny him. Afterwards, when she thought of it, she could not imagine why it had been so with her; but, in spite of her great love, she continued to tell herself that there was some obstacle which could never be overcome—or was it that a certain maidenly reserve sat so strong within her bosom that she could not bring herself to own to him that he was dear to her?
“Never!” exclaimed Maurice, despondently.
“Oh, no!”
“But why not? I will be very frank with you, dear. I did think you liked me a little before that affair in the study.” Like him a little! Oh, how she had loved him! She knew it now, and yet not for worlds could she tell him so. “You are not still angry with me, Isabel?”
“No; not angry.”
“Why should you say never? Dear Isabel, cannot you try to love me?” Then he attempted to take her hand, but she recoiled at once from his touch, and did feel something of anger against him in that he should thus refuse to take her word. She knew not what it was that she desired of him, but certainly he should not attempt to take her hand, when she told him plainly that she could not love him. A red spot rose to each of her cheeks as again he pressed her. “Do you really mean that you can never, never love me?” She muttered some answer, she knew not what, and then he turned from her, and stood looking out upon the snow which had fallen during the night. She kept her ground for a few seconds, and then escaped through the door, and up to her own bedroom. When once there, she burst out into tears. Could it be possible that she had thrown away forever her own happiness, because she had been too silly to give a true answer to an honest question? And was this the enjoyment and content which she had promised herself for Christmas Day? But surely, surely he would come to her again. If he really loved her as he had declared, if it was true that ever since his arrival at Kirkby Cliffe he had thought of her as his wife, he would not abandon her because in the first tumult of her surprise she had lacked courage to own to him the truth; and then in the midst of her tears there came upon her that delicious recognition of a triumph which, whatever be the victory won, causes such elation to the heart! Nothing, at any rate, could rob her of this—that he had loved her. Then, as a thought suddenly struck her, she ran quickly across the passage, and in a moment was upstairs, telling her tale with her mother’s arm close folded round her waist.
In the meantime Mr. Lownd had gone down to the parlour, and had found Maurice still looking out upon the snow. He, too, with some gentle sarcasm, had congratulated the young man on his early rising, as he expressed the ordinary wish of the day. “Yes,” said Maurice, “I had something special to do. Many happy Christmases, sir! I don’t know much about its being happy to me.”
“Why, what ails you?”
“It’s a nasty sort of day, isn’t it?” said Maurice.
“Does that trouble you? I rather like a little snow on Christmas Day. It has a pleasant, old-fashioned look. And there isn’t enough to keep even an old woman at home.”
“I dare say not,” said Maurice, who was still beating about the bush, having something to tell, but not knowing how to tell it. “Mr. Lownd, I should have come to you first, if it hadn’t been for an accident.”
“Come to me first! What accident?”
“Yes; only I found Miss Lownd down here this morning, and I asked her to be my wife. You needn’t be unhappy about it, sir. She refused me point blank.”
“You must have startled her, Maurice. You have startled me, at any rate.”
“There was nothing of that sort, Mr. Lownd. She took it all very easily. I think she does take things easily.” Poor Isabel! “She just told me plainly that it never could be so, and then she walked out of the room.”
“I don’t think she expected it, Maurice.”
“Oh, dear no! I’m quite sure she didn’t. She hadn’t thought about me any more than if I were an old dog. I suppose men do make fools of themselves sometimes. I shall get over it, sir.”
“Oh, I hope so.”
“I shall give up the idea of living here. I couldn’t do that. I shall probably sell the property, and go to Africa.”
“Go to Africa!”
“Well, yes. It’s as good a place as any other, I suppose. It’s wild, and a long way off, and all that kind of
