“I am so glad that you see your father.”
“I have not spoken to him for months before, and probably may not speak to him for months again. But there is one point, Violet, on which he and I agree.”
“I hope there will soon be many.”
“It is possible—but I fear not probable. Look here, Violet,”—and he looked at her with all his eyes, till it seemed to her that he was all eyes, so great was the intensity of his gaze;—“I should scorn myself were I to permit myself to come before you with a plea for your favour founded on my father’s whims. My father is unreasonable, and has been very unjust to me. He has ever believed evil of me, and has believed it often when all the world knew that he was wrong. I care little for being reconciled to a father who has been so cruel to me.”
“He loves me dearly, and is my friend. I would rather that you should not speak against him to me.”
“You will understand, at least, that I am asking nothing from you because he wishes it. Laura probably has told you that you may make things straight by becoming my wife.”
“She has—certainly, Lord Chiltern.”
“It is an argument that she should never have used. It is an argument to which you should not listen for a moment. Make things straight indeed! Who can tell? There would be very little made straight by such a marriage, if it were not that I loved you. Violet, that is my plea, and my only one. I love you so well that I do believe that if you took me I should return to the old ways, and become as other men are, and be in time as respectable, as stupid—and perhaps as ill-natured as old Lady Baldock herself.”
“My poor aunt!”
“You know she says worse things of me than that. Now, dearest, you have heard all that I have to say to you.” As he spoke he came close to her, and put out his hand—but she did not touch it. “I have no other argument to use—not a word more to say. As I came here in the cab I was turning it over in my mind that I might find what best I should say. But, after all, there is nothing more to be said than that.”
“The words make no difference,” she replied.
“Not unless they be so uttered as to force a belief. I do love you. I know no other reason but that why you should be my wife. I have no other excuse to offer for coming to you again. You are the one thing in the world that to me has any charm. Can you be surprised that I should be persistent in asking for it?” He was looking at her still with the same gaze, and there seemed to be a power in his eye from which she could not escape. He was still standing with his right hand out, as though expecting, or at least hoping, that her hand might be put into his.
“How am I to answer you?” she said.
“With your love, if you can give it to me. Do you remember how you swore once that you would love me forever and always?”
“You should not remind me of that. I was a child then—a naughty child,” she added, smiling; “and was put to bed for what I did on that day.”
“Be a child still.”
“Ah, if we but could!”
“And have you no other answer to make me?”
“Of course I must answer you. You are entitled to an answer. Lord Chiltern, I am sorry that I cannot give you the love for which you ask.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
“Is it myself personally, or what you have heard of me, that is so hateful to you?”
“Nothing is hateful to me. I have never spoken of hate. I shall always feel the strongest regard for my old friend and playfellow. But there are many things which a woman is bound to consider before she allows herself so to love a man that she can consent to become his wife.”
“Allow herself! Then it is a matter entirely of calculation.”
“I suppose there should be some thought in it, Lord Chiltern.”
There was now a pause, and the man’s hand was at last allowed to drop, as there came no response to the proffered grasp. He walked once or twice across the room before he spoke again, and then he stopped himself closely opposite to her.
“I shall never try again,” he said.
“It will be better so,” she replied.
“There is something to me unmanly in a man’s persecuting a girl. Just tell Laura, will you, that it is all over; and she may as well tell my father. Goodbye.”
She then tendered her hand to him, but he did not take it—probably did not see it, and at once left the room and the house.
“And yet I believe you love him,” Lady Laura said to her friend in her anger, when they discussed the matter immediately on Lord Chiltern’s departure.
“You have no right to say that, Laura.”
“I have a right to my belief, and I do believe it. I think you love him, and that you lack the courage to risk yourself in trying to save him.”
“Is a woman bound to marry a man if she love him?”
“Yes, she is,” replied Lady Laura impetuously, without thinking of what she was saying; “that is, if she be convinced that she also is loved.”
“Whatever be the man’s character;—whatever be the circumstances? Must she do so, whatever friends may say to the contrary? Is there to be no prudence in marriage?”
“There may be a great deal too much prudence,” said Lady Laura.
“That is true. There is certainly too much prudence if a woman marries prudently, but without love.” Violet intended by this no attack upon her friend—had not had present in her mind at the moment any idea of Lady Laura’s special prudence in marrying Mr. Kennedy; but Lady Laura
