“Oh no!—you are always considerate, always kind,” cried Edith; “but, dear Lord Millefleurs, listen to me—I don’t think it would do—”
“No?” he said, with rather a blank air, suddenly pausing in the soft pat of encouragement he was giving her upon the hand; but he did not drop the hand, nor did Edith take it from him. She had recovered her breath and her composure; her heart fluttered no more. The usual half laugh with which she was in the habit of talking to him came into her voice.
“No?” said Millefleurs. “But, indeed, I think it would do very nicely. We understand each other very well; we belong to the same milieu” (how pleased Lord Lindores would have been to hear this, and how amazed the Duke!), “and we are fond of each other. We are both young, and you are extremely pretty. Dear Edith—mayn’t I call you so?—I think it would do admirably, delightfully!”
“Certainly you may call me so,” she said, with a smile; “but on the old footing, not any new one. There is a difference between being fond of anyone, and being—in love.” Edith said this with a hot, sudden blush; then shaking her head as if to shake that other sentiment off, added, by way of reassuring herself, “don’t you know?” with a tremulous laugh. Little Millefleurs’s countenance grew more grave. He was not in love with any passion; still he did not like to be refused.
“Excuse me, but I can’t laugh,” he said, putting down her hand; “it is too serious. I do not see the difference, for my part. I have always thought that falling in love was a rather vulgar way of describing the matter. I think we have all that is wanted for a happy marriage. If you do not love me so much as I love you, there is no great harm in that; it will come in time. I feel sure that I should be a very good husband, and you—”
“Would not be a good wife—oh no, no!” cried Edith, with a little shudder, shrinking from him; then she turned towards him again with sudden compunction. “You must not suppose it is unkindness; but think—two people who have been like brother—and sister.”
“The only time,” said Millefleurs, still more seriously, “that I ever stood in this position before, it was the relationship of mother and son that was suggested to me—with equal futility, if you will permit me to say so;—brother and sister means little. So many people think they feel so, till some moment undeceives them. I think I may safely say that my feelings have never—except, perhaps, at the very first—been those of a brother—any more,” he added in a parenthesis, “than they were ever those of a son.”
What Edith said in reply was the most curious request ever made perhaps by a girl to the man who had just asked her to marry him. She laid her hand upon his arm, and said softly, “Tell me about her!” in a voice of mild coaxing, just tempered with laughter. Millefleurs shook his head, and relieved his plump bosom with a little sigh.
“Not at this moment, dear Edith. This affair must first be arranged between us. You do not mean to refuse me? Reflect a moment. I spoke to your father more than a week ago. It was the day before the death of poor Mr. Torrance. Since then I have waited, hung up, don’t you know, like Muhammad’s coffin. When such a delay does occur, it is generally understood in one way. When a lady means to say No, it is only just to say it at once—not to permit a man to commit himself, and leave him, don’t you know, hanging on.”
“Dear Lord Millefleurs—”
“My name is Wilfrid,” he said, with a little pathos; “no one ever calls me by it: in this country not even my mother—calls me by my name.”
“In America,” said Edith, boldly, “you were called so by—the other lady—”
He waved his hand. “By many people,” he said; “but never mind. Never by anyone here. Call me Wilfrid, and I shall feel happier—”
“I was going to say that if you had spoken to me, I should have told you at once,” Edith said. “When you understand me quite, then we shall call each other anything you please. But that cannot be, Lord Millefleurs. Indeed you must understand me. I like you very much. I should be dreadfully sorry if I thought what I am saying would really hurt you—but it will not after the first minute. I think you ought to marry her—”
“Oh, there would be no hindrance there,” said Millefleurs; “that was quite unsuitable. I don’t suppose it could ever have been. But with you,” he said, turning to take her hand again, “dear Edith! everything is as it should be—it pleases your people, and it will delight mine. They will all love you; and for my part, I am almost as fond of dear Lady Lindores as I am of you. Nothing could be more jolly (to use a vulgar word—for I hate slang) than the life we should lead. I should take you over there, don’t you know, and show you everything, as far as San Francisco if you like. I know it all. And you would form my opinions, and make me good for something when we
