“You are intending, then, to return?”
Her reply was prefaced by a glance of amazement.
“Of course,” she responded at last. “Is not this my home?”
Something in the way she said this carried a ray of hope to his heart. Taking her hand in his, he looked at her long and searchingly.
“Imogene!” he exclaimed, “there is something serious weighing upon your heart. What is it? Will you not make me the confidant of your troubles? Tell me what has made such a change in you since—since noon, and its dreadful event.”
But her expression did not soften, and her manner became even more reserved than before.
“I have not anything to tell,” said she.
“Not anything?” he repeated.
“Not anything.”
Dropping her hand, he communed a moment with himself. That a secret of possible consequence lay between them he could not doubt. That it had reference to and involved the crime of the morning, he was equally sure. But how was he to make her acknowledge it? How was he to reach her mind and determine its secrets without alarming her dignity or wounding her heart?
To press her with questions seemed impossible. Even if he could have found words with which to formulate his fears, her firm, set face, and steady, unrelenting eye, assured him only too plainly that the attempt would be met by failure, if it did not bring upon him her scorn and contempt. No; some other method must be found; some way that would completely and at once ease his mind of a terrible weight, and yet involve no risk to the love that had now become the greatest necessity of his existence. But what way? With all his acumen and knowledge of the world, he could think of but one. He would ask her hand in marriage—aye, at this very moment—and from the tenor of her reply judge of the nature of her thoughts. For, looking in her face, he felt forced to acknowledge that whatever doubts he had ever cherished in reference to the character of this remarkable girl, upon one point he was perfectly clear, and this was, that she was at basis honorable in her instincts, and would never do herself or another a real injustice. If a distinct wrong or even a secret of an unhappy or debasing nature lay between them, he knew that nothing, not even the bitterest necessity or the most headlong passion, would ever drive her into committing the dishonor of marrying him.
No; if with his declaration in her ears, and with his eyes fixed upon hers, she should give any token of her willingness to accept his addresses, he felt he might know, beyond doubt or cavil, that whatever womanish excitability may have moved her in her demonstrations that day, they certainly arose from no private knowledge or suspicion detrimental to his future peace or to hers.
Bracing himself, therefore, to meet any result that might follow his attempt, he drew her gently toward him and determinedly addressed her.
“Imogene, I told you at the gate that I had something to say to you. So I have; and though it may not be wholly unexpected to you, yet I doubt if it would have left my lips tonight if the events of the day had not urged me to offer you my sympathy and protection.”
He paused, almost sickened; at that last phrase she had grown so terribly white and breathless. But something in her manner, notwithstanding, seemed to encourage him to proceed, and smothering his doubts, trampling, as it were, upon his rising apprehensions, he calmed down his tone and went quietly on:
“Imogene, I love you.”
She did not shrink.
“Imogene, I want you for my wife. Will you listen to my prayer, and make my home forever happy with your presence?”
Ah, now she showed feeling; now she started and drew back, putting out her hands as if the idea he had advanced was insupportable to her. But it was only for a moment. Before he could say to himself that it was all over, that his worst fears had been true, and that nothing but the sense of some impassable gulf between them could have made her recoil from him like this, she had dropped her hands and turned toward him with a look whose deep inquiry and evident struggle after an understanding of his claims, spoke of a mind clouded by trouble, but not alienated from himself by fear.
She did not speak, however—not for some few minutes, and when she did, her words came in short and hurried gasps.
“You are kind,” was what she said. “To be your—wife”—she had difficulty in uttering the word, but it came at last—“would be an honor and a protection. I appreciate both. But I am in no mood tonight to listen to words of love from any man. Perhaps six months hence—”
But he already had her in his arms. The joy and relief he felt were so great he could not control himself. “Imogene,” he murmured, “my Imogene!” And scarcely heeded her when, in a burst of subdued agony, she asked to be released, saying that she was ill and tired, and must be allowed to withdraw to her room.
But a second appeal woke him from his dream. If his worst fears were without foundation; if her mind was pure of aught that unfitted her to be his wife, there was yet much that was mysterious in her conduct, and, consequently, much which he longed to have explained.
“Imogene,” he said, “I must ask you to remain a moment longer. Hard as it is for me to distress you, there is a question which I feel it necessary to put to you before you go. It is in reference to the fearful crime which took place today. Why did you take such an interest in it, and why has it had such an effect upon you that you look like a changed woman tonight?”
Disengaging herself from his arms, she looked at him with the set composure of one driven to
