“I don’t see that that follows.”
“By ⸻, if it doesn’t, I’ll be off!”
“You must please yourself about that, Sir Griffin.”
“Come; do you love me? You have never said you loved me.” Luckily perhaps for her he thought that the best assurance of love was a kiss. She did not revolt, or attempt to struggle with him; but the hot blood flew over her entire face, and her lips were very cold to his, and she almost trembled in his grasp. Sir Griffin was not a man who could ever have been the adored of many women, but the instincts of his kind were strong enough within him to make him feel that she did not return his embrace with passion. He had found her to be very beautiful;—but it seemed to him that she had never been so little beautiful as when thus pressed close to his bosom. “Come,” he said, still holding her; “you’ll give me a kiss?”
“I did do it,” she said.
“No;—nothing like it. Oh, if you won’t, you know—”
On a sudden she made up her mind, and absolutely did kiss him. She would sooner have leaped at the blackest, darkest, dirtiest river in the county. “There,” she said, “that will do,” gently extricating herself from his arms. “Some girls are different, I know; but you must take me as I am, Sir Griffin;—that is, if you do take me.”
“Why can’t you drop the Sir?”
“Oh yes;—I can do that.”
“And you do love me?” There was a pause, while she tried to swallow the lie. “Come;—I’m not going to marry any girl who is ashamed to say that she loves me. I like a little flesh and blood. You do love me?”
“Yes,” she said. The lie was told; and for the moment he had to be satisfied. But in his heart he didn’t believe her. It was all very well for her to say that she wasn’t like other girls. Why shouldn’t she be like other girls? It might, no doubt, suit her to be made Lady Tewett;—but he wouldn’t make her Lady Tewett if she gave herself airs with him. She should lie on his breast and swear that she loved him beyond all the world;—or else she should never be Lady Tewett. Different from other girls indeed! She should know that he was different from other men. Then he asked her to come and take a walk about the grounds. To that she made no objection. She would get her hat and be with him in a minute.
But she was absent more than ten minutes. When she was alone she stood before her glass looking at herself, and then she burst into tears. Never before had she been thus polluted. The embrace had disgusted her. It made her odious to herself. And if this, the beginning of it, were so bad, how was she to drink the cup to the bitter dregs? Other girls, she knew, were fond of their lovers—some so fond of them that all moments of absence were moments, if not of pain, at any rate of regret. To her, as she stood there ready to tear herself because of the vileness of her own condition, it now seemed as though no such love as that were possible to her. For the sake of this man who was to be her husband, she hated all men. Was not everything around her base, and mean, and sordid? She had understood thoroughly the quick divulgings of Mrs. Carbuncle’s tidings, the working of her aunt’s anxious mind. The man, now that he had been caught, was not to be allowed to escape. But how great would be the boon if he would escape. How should she escape? And yet she knew that she meant to go on and bear it all. Perhaps by study and due practice she might become—as were some others—a beast of prey, and nothing more. The feeling that had made these few minutes so inexpressibly loathsome to her might, perhaps, be driven from her heart. She washed the tears from her eyes with savage energy and descended to her lover with a veil fastened closely under her hat. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” she said.
“Women always do,” he replied laughing. “It gives them importance.”
“It is not so with me, I can assure you. I will tell you the truth. I was agitated—and I cried.”
“Oh, ay; I dare say.” He rather liked the idea of having reduced the haughty Lucinda to tears. “But you needn’t have been ashamed of my seeing it. As it is, I can see nothing. You must take that off presently.”
“Not now, Griffin.” Oh, what a name it was! It seemed to blister her tongue as she used it without the usual prefix.
“I never saw you tied up in that way before. You don’t do it out hunting. I’ve seen you when the snow has been driving in your face, and you didn’t mind it—not so much as I did.”
“You can’t be surprised that I should be agitated now.”
“But you’re happy;—ain’t you?”
“Yes,” she said. The lie once told must of course be continued.
“Upon my word, I don’t quite understand you,” said Sir Griffin. “Look here, Lucinda; if you want to back out of it, you can, you know.”
“If you ask me again, I will.” This was said with the old savage voice, and it at once reduced Sir Griffin to thraldom. To be rejected now would be the death of him. And should there come a quarrel he was sure that it would seem to be that he had been rejected.
“I suppose it’s all right,” he said; “only when a man is only thinking how he can make you happy, he doesn’t like to find nothing but crying.” After this there was but little more said between them before they returned to the castle.
XLIII
Life at Portray
On the Monday Frank took his departure. Everybody at the castle had liked him except
