“I cannot think it a great pity that you should have lived here,” he said. “The thing is, that you must not go. For God’s sake, Nora, do not go! I never thought of that; it is the last drop. If you knew how near I am to the end of my strength, you would not speak of such a thing to me.”
“Lord Rintoul! I—don’t understand. What can it matter?” cried Nora, in her confusion. She felt that she should have taken a different tone. He had no right to call her Nora, or to speak as if he had anything to do with her coming or going. But the hurried tone of passion and terror in his voice overwhelmed her. It was as if he had heard of the last misfortune that could overwhelm a man.
“Matter! Do you mean to me? It may not matter to anyone else; to me it is everything,” he said, wildly. “I shall give in altogether. I shall not care what I do if you go away.”
“Now, Lord Rintoul,” said Nora, her heart beating, but trying to laugh as she best could, “this, you must know, is nonsense. You cannot mean to make fun of me, I am sure; but—I don’t know what you mean. We had better say no more about it.” Then she melted again. She remembered their last interview, which had gone to her heart. “I know,” she said, “that you have been in a great deal of trouble.”
“You know,” said Rintoul, “because you feel for me. Nobody else knows. Then think what it will be for me if you go away—the only creature whom I dare to speak to. Nora, you know very well I was always fond of you—from the first—as soon as we met—”
“Don’t, don’t, Lord Rintoul! I cannot get away from you on this public road. Have some respect for me. You ought not to say such things, nor I to hear.”
He looked at her, wondering. “Is it any want of respect to tell you that you are the girl I have always wanted to marry? You may not feel the same; it may be only your kindness: you may refuse me, Nora; but I have always meant it. I have thought it was our duty to do the best we could for the girls, but I never gave in to that for myself. My father has spoken of this one and that one, but I have always been faithful to you. That is no want of respect, though it is a public road. From the time I first knew you, I have only thought of you.”
What an ease it gave him to say this! All the other points that had so occupied him before seemed to have melted away in her presence. If he had but someone to stand by him—if he had but Nora, who felt for him always. It seemed that everything else would arrange itself, and become less difficult to bear.
As for Nora, she had known very well that Rintoul was, as he said, fond of her. It is so difficult to conceal that. But she thought he would “get over it.” She had said to herself, with some little scorn, that he never would have the courage to woo a poor girl like herself—a girl without anything. He had a worldly mind though he was young, and Nora had never allowed herself to be deluded, she thought.
“Don’t you believe me?” he said, after a moment’s pause, looking at her wistfully, holding out his hand.
“Yes, I believe you, Lord Rintoul,” said Nora; but she took no notice of his outstretched hand, though it cost her something to be, as she said to herself, “so unkind.” “I do believe you; but it would never be permitted, you know. You yourself would not approve of it when you had time to think; for you are worldly-minded, Lord Rintoul: and you know you ought to marry—an heiress—someone with money.”
“You have a very good right to say so,” he replied. “I have always maintained that for the girls: but if you had ever taken any notice of me, you would have found out that I never allowed it for myself. Yes, it is quite true I am worldly-minded; but I never meant to marry money. I never thought of marrying anyone but you.”
And now there was a pause again. He did not seem to have asked her any question that Nora could answer. He had only made a statement to her that she was the only girl he had ever wished to marry. It roused a great commotion in her breast. She had always liked Rintoul, even when his sisters called him a Philistine; and now when he was in trouble, under some mysterious shadow, she knew not why, appealing to her sympathy as to his salvation, it was not possible that the girl should shut her heart against him. They walked on together for a few yards in silence, and then she said, faltering, “I had better go back now—I—did not expect to—meet anyone.”
“Don’t go back without saying something to me. Promise me, Nora, that you will not go away. I want you! I want you! Without you I should go all wrong. If you saw me sinking in the water, wouldn’t you put out your hand to help me?—and that is nothing to what may happen. Nora, have you the heart to go back without saying anything to me?” cried Rintoul, once more holding out his hand.
There was nobody visible on the road, up or down. The turrets of Lindores peeped over the trees in the distance, like spectators deeply interested, holding their breath; at the other end the long thin tower of the Town House seemed to pale away into the distance. He looked anxiously into her face, as if life and death hung on the decision. They had come to a
