“Why should not you be driven as well as another?” she answered, laughing.
LII
The First Blow
Lord Chiltern, though he had passed two entire days in the house with Violet without renewing his suit, had come to Loughlinter for the express purpose of doing so, and had his plans perfectly fixed in his own mind. After breakfast on that last morning he was upstairs with his sister in her own room, and immediately made his request to her. “Laura,” he said, “go down like a good girl, and make Violet come up here.” She stood a moment looking at him and smiled. “And, mind,” he continued, “you are not to come back yourself. I must have Violet alone.”
“But suppose Violet will not come? Young ladies do not generally wait upon young men on such occasions.”
“No;—but I rank her so high among young women, that I think she will have common sense enough to teach her that, after what has passed between us, I have a right to ask for an interview, and that it may be more conveniently had here than in the wilderness of the house below.”
Whatever may have been the arguments used by her friend, Violet did come. She reached the door all alone, and opened it bravely. She had promised herself, as she came along the passages, that she would not pause with her hand on the lock for a moment. She had first gone to her own room, and as she left it she had looked into the glass with a hurried glance, and had then rested for a moment—thinking that something should be done, that her hair might be smoothed, or a ribbon set straight, or the chain arranged under her brooch. A girl would wish to look well before her lover, even when she means to refuse him. But her pause was but for an instant, and then she went on, having touched nothing. She shook her head and pressed her hands together, and went on quick and opened the door—almost with a little start. “Violet, this is very good of you,” said Lord Chiltern, standing with his back to the fire, and not moving from the spot.
“Laura has told me that you thought I would do as much as this for you, and therefore I have done it.”
“Thanks, dearest. It is the old story, Violet, and I am so bad at words!”
“I must have been bad at words too, as I have not been able to make you understand.”
“I think I have understood. You are always clear-spoken, and I, though I cannot talk, am not muddle-pated. I have understood. But while you are single there must be yet hope;—unless, indeed, you will tell me that you have already given yourself to another man.”
“I have not done that.”
“Then how can I not hope? Violet, I would if I could tell you all my feelings plainly. Once, twice, thrice, I have said to myself that I would think of you no more. I have tried to persuade myself that I am better single than married.”
“But I am not the only woman.”
“To me you are—absolutely, as though there were none other on the face of God’s earth. I live much alone; but you are always with me. Should you marry any other man, it will be the same with me still. If you refuse me now I shall go away—and live wildly.”
“Oswald, what do you mean?”
“I mean that I will go to some distant part of the world, where I may be killed or live a life of adventure. But I shall do so simply in despair. It will not be that I do not know how much better and greater should be the life at home of a man in my position.”
“Then do not talk of going.”
“I cannot stay. You will acknowledge, Violet, that I have never lied to you. I am thinking of you day and night. The more indifferent you show yourself to me, the more I love you. Violet, try to love me.” He came up to her, and took her by both her hands, and tears were in his eyes. “Say you will try to love me.”
“It is not that,” said Violet, looking away, but still leaving her hands with him.
“It is not what, dear?”
“What you call—trying.”
“It is that you do not wish to try?”
“Oswald, you are so violent, so headstrong. I am afraid of you—as is everybody. Why have you not written to your father, as we have asked you?”
“I will write to him instantly, now, before I leave the room, and you shall dictate the letter to him. By heavens, you shall!” He had dropped her hands when she called him violent; but now he took them again, and still she permitted it. “I have postponed it only till I had spoken to you once again.”
“No, Lord Chiltern, I will not dictate to you.”
“But will you love me?” She paused and looked down, having even now not withdrawn her hands from him. But I do not think he knew how much he had gained. “You used to love me—a little,” he said.
“Indeed—indeed, I did.”
“And now? Is it all changed now?”
“No,” she said, retreating from him.
“How is it, then? Violet, speak to me honestly. Will you be my wife?” She did not answer him, and he stood for a moment looking at her. Then he rushed at her, and, seizing her in his arms, kissed her all over—her forehead, her lips, her cheeks, then both her hands, and then her lips again. “By G⸺, she is my own!” he said. Then he went back to the rug before the fire, and stood there with his back turned to her.
