THE DOUBLE PROPOSAL.
Some weeks had passed since Gillian’s visit to Mrs. Ransom when she had
first met Woodworth. In those weeks she had become more restless than
ever. Her seasons of fitful sadness came on more frequently. Her
cheerfulness sometimes rose to excitement; then for days together she
would float away into a state of dreamy happiness that had no visible
cause, but which brought all the rich poetry of her nature to the
surface.
Love is the mission of womanhood; and when it finds a first expression,
either in feeling or in sound, that seems originality which almost every
true heart has tasted from the time of Eve down to the nineteenth
century.
I do not say that Gillian knew that the sweet thoughts and yearning wish
for sympathy which possessed her sprang from the quick unsealing of her
heart; but Mrs. Ransom was more keen of sight, and these mutations in
the character of her protégé gave her great anxiety. Why she should
regret this evident growth of love in the heart of that young girl it
seemed impossible to determine. It may be that she felt some
responsibility flow back to herself from the fact that Gillian had met
Woodworth for the first time under her roof, and that more than once
during the last month they had, by a sort of intuition, encountered each
other in their morning visits to her. These visits were sure to end in a
ramble through the grounds, during which it always fell out that the
elder lady was, for a few moments at least, left to solitary meditation;
while Woodworth lured Gillian off to search for sweetbriar among the
thickets, or found some object of interest on the shore.
One day the two stood together on the ledge of rocks which lay within
sight of the library window, to which Mrs. Ransom had retired with an
uncomfortable consciousness that she was one too many in that morning
ramble. Evidently her retreat had not been noticed, or her absence
regretted; for her visitors stood together on the shelf of rock,
surrounded by the dew and freshness of morning, with one of the
loveliest prospects in the world before them, yet so evidently
unconscious of every thing but their two selves, that the smiling scene
might have turned to a desert and they would not have regarded the
change.
Mrs. Ransom sighed heavily as she looked upon them—sighed till her
breath seemed a moan; then, wearily turning away, she lifted one hand to
her forehead, drew it over her eyes, and, lo! the tears flowed against
it in great, heavy drops.
Why did Julia Ransom cry so bitterly? That stately man was her friend—a
dear old friend with whom common pursuits and many a bright tie of
thought had bound her; and Gillian, ah! there was no doubt in it—she
loved the bright girl as only a woman so lonely and so endowed can love
the beautiful and wayward of her sex. Why was she sad, while, standing
there in her proud loneliness, she gazed out upon that picture of
growing affection? Was it possible that she loved Woodworth herself?
There would seem to be nothing so very unreasonable in the idea; for
Julia was a fine woman still, gifted with the best elements of beauty,
of mobile features and an expression on which the thought beamed before
it was uttered. The disparity in their ages, too, was not so very great;
and in character those two persons were so much alike that the only
wonder was they had not long since been declared lovers.
Yet her look did not bespeak this state of things. There was neither
anger nor jealousy in the tearful glances she cast upon the lovers; but
the pathos of a deep, deep regret filled her eyes and trembled around
her mouth while she walked to and fro, moaning with unconscious pain,
but still keeping that group upon the rocks in sight.
And a beautiful picture it was! Woodworth was speaking: sweet and
proudly humble were his words. You could tell that by the stoop of his
head and the position of his stately person as he bent toward Gillian,
who lifted her eyes to his with the earnestness of a child, while her
hands clasped themselves in a mass of scarlet roses which he had just
gathered for her from a flower-bed that sloped toward the river.
Julia was not near enough to see the color of that fair, oval cheek, to
which the red flowers seemed to have lent their richness; nor could she
discern the expression which came to those eyes——the terror and
delicious wonder that looked for an instant into his face and then
vailed itself beneath those soft, golden-brown lashes. No, no; to have
witnessed that would have been to reveal all the force and earnestness
of a love that few human beings are ever privileged to know, at least on
this side the grave.
It was, perhaps, because Julia felt how all-prevailing the love of two
such persons must prove that she looked upon it with those evidences of
anxiety. Perhaps she thought of her own isolation; and that true heart,
warm and romantic as ever beat in a human bosom, cast back upon itself
during the best part of a life, was thrilled with self-pity by all the
waste she found there.
I cannot tell what were the feelings which gave rise to those tears, but
surely no unworthy or selfish grief had place there; for after a little
she wiped the drops from her eyes, and a heavenly smile swept the clouds
from her face. She sat down upon the little veranda, to which her
library opened, and watched the picture on the ledge with a new and more
gentle interest.
With what sweet humility the proud girl bowed her head and listened! How
earnest, how bright with tenderness, his face shone out as it bent
toward her! All her limbs must have trembled, for, one by one, she
dropped the roses around her feet, leaving her white hands clasped and
her eyes downcast, as if some sweet thanksgiving were singing at her
heart, and she was afraid he might guess at the hidden joy.
Gillian scarcely seemed tall then; her figure drooped like a flower on
its stalk when the dew is heavy: at last she looked around as if her
strength were giving way. Just below them, along the shelf of the rock,
fleeces of moss had been transplanted from the woods, and lay in
cushions, soft and rich as those in an oriental seraglio; aye, richer,
for the morning sunshine embroidered their delicate green with gold, and
the night dew trembled over them like diamonds. Over this moss some of
Gillian’s roses had fallen, and when she sat down their fragrance was
all around her. So it should have been for an hour like that—the one
brief hour of perfect bliss which a poor mortal knows sometimes in a
lifetime, and learns to look forward to the heaven that must be so much
like it ever after.
Was Julia Ransom thinking of the one hour in her own life so much like
that; or, had all such joy been a stranger to her? I cannot tell, for
she never spoke of herself. You only knew that she had felt and suffered
by the words that thrilled you with pain or tenderness when she wrote. A
woman endowed like her was not likely to unvail her heart. If you saw it
through the mists of a high thought, it was all you could hope to learn
of the life which lay enshrined within the glory of her frame. I do not
know of what she was thinking; but, as Woodworth threw himself along the
moss, at Gillian’s feet, and gathering up one of the roses, carried it,
blushing with kisses, from his lips to hers, Julia arose, with a faint
shadow still around her eyes, and walked toward them.
She saw the color rush up to Gillian’s neck as her footsteps sounded on
the rock. As for Woodworth, he half rose, and held out his hand,
challenging her congratulations with a triumphant smile. Julia shook her
head with a touch of sadness; her fingers were cold as he clasped them,
but she bent lovingly over Gillian and kissed her on the forehead.
Then the warm scarlet rushed over the young girl in a torrent of
blushes, and tears of beautiful joy sparkled in her eyes.
“Now,” said Woodworth, pressing his lips on Mrs. Ransom’s hand, “now my
happiness is rounded: without you, our best friend, nothing is complete.
Do not look sad; we have learned to love each other in both loving you.”
“Oh, flatterer,” said Mrs. Ransom, gently; “in a little while you will
say it was because Gillian here was like me that you sought her.”
“And so she is. The same warm heart—the same generous charity—the same
great faults; for you have no little ones, upon my life, Mrs. Ransom: it
is because she is like you in these things that I love her.”
“Do not flatter,” said Mrs. Ransom, looking wistfully at the young face
before her. “If there is any resemblance, it lies in the affection we
feel for each other.”
“And in a general cast of thought which struck me from the first. I
really should think Miss Bentley had lived with you all her life.”
“And so she has, the best portion of it,” said Gillian, gratefully, “for
if life is measured by thoughts and feelings, I have only learned how to
exist here: all other places seem distasteful to me now.”
“But your father?” said Julia, a little reproachfully. “Surely life is
sweet with him.”
Gillian felt the gentle rebuke, and her eyes fell.
“Oh, I had forgotten my father—you know how I love him. Indeed, who
could help it? But I do not know how it is—he sometimes seems to bear my
presence with pain; and when I speak out the thought that comes
uppermost, or feel more than usually happy, he shrinks away from me and
goes off alone, as if there existed something in my words or manner that
he could not reconcile himself to. What is it, dear Mrs. Ransom, that
lies between my father and his child?”
“I should say,” answered Woodworth, thoughtfully, “that it was a memory
of something he has loved and lost. Was your father very much attached
to your mother, Gillian? I mean, did he regard her with more than
ordinary love?”
“Indeed I think so, and the more because he seldom mentions her. But how
could he help it? You should only hear Uncle Daniel when he talks of
her. Oh, if she had only lived, I should have loved her entirely with my
whole heart, as I love you, Mrs. Ransom. I know that she was a woman to
worship—to be proud of—for once my father told me so.”
Mrs. Ransom sat perfectly still, looking into the distance. When Gillian
uttered the last words, she rose and walked toward the river, as if some
thing on the shore had caught her attention; but half-way down she
paused and gathered some sweetbriar, which she brought back with her and
quietly divided between the lovers.
“You were speaking of your father,” she said. “What will he think of the
pledge you have just given, Gillian? Remember you are an only child, and
the heiress of great wealth.”
“My father loves me, and he does not care for any thing else,” said
Gillian, crimson with dread that there was something in Mrs. Ransom’s
words which might wound the sensitive pride of her lover. “There are
things that he respects more than wealth, and that is not wanting where
genius exists. You do not know my father, Mrs. Ransom, if you think that
the ability to earn fame, the energy which _has_ earned it, will not
meet even his ambition.”
Woodworth sat watching her embarrassment, and smiled when it broke into
enthusiasm. He was really too proud at heart to think of Mr. Bentley’s
wealth, either as an incentive or impediment to his suit with the
heiress. So long as she possessed refinement, education, and those
qualities that could awake a heart not easily touched like his, he had
thought of nothing else. With a just appreciation of the position which
his own self-directed genius had already won, it never struck him to
feel any inequality which property could produce. Feeling himself a fair
match for Mr. Bentley’s daughter, he had frankly offered himself, and as
frankly been accepted. He had visited at Mr. Bentley’s house, and knew
himself to be a favorite with its master, who, unlike the lower class of
millionaires, was a man of fine taste and unusual erudition. That a
character like Mrs. Ransom’s would object to him as a son-in-law had
never for a moment entered into his calculations.
With Gillian herself, he had been humble as true affection can make a
proud man. Her youth and her singular attractiveness, compared to his
riper years and those harsher traits that fasten on a man who works his
way to position, impressed him almost with hopelessness. Had any one
told him that there was a woman in the land whose position entitled her
to look down upon him, he would have laughed in derision. But he gave to
Gillian’s bright character what a queen would have failed to win from
him—the homage of a profound respect for her womanliness, and of a great
love that would have left him bankrupt had she proved unworthy.
“And have you no fear that Mr. Bentley may refuse you his daughter?”
said Mrs. Ransom, pressing the subject home with remarkable pertinacity,
as if she had resolved to punish them for a moment’s forgetfulness of a
father’s right. “Men like him do not give up their daughters to the
first person who asks. He will be taken by surprise.”
“Now you are getting unamiable,” said Woodworth, smiling a little
constrainedly. “It is the first time that I ever knew Mrs. Ransom fling
shadows on a bright hour.”
“And have I been so cruel?” said Julia, with a quiver of the lip. “Well,
well, I was but thinking how little a parent has of power or control
over the destiny of a grownup child.”
“But have you any reason to think that Mr. Bentley will disapprove of
the feelings to which you are the sole confidante?” inquired Woodworth,
now really anxious. “Have you seen him? Are there any grounds for
supposing that he has other plans?”
“Do not be so impetuous, my friend,” she replied, smiling. “I have no
reason on earth for what I have said. Nothing but over-anxiety, and a
little unaccountable nervousness, which makes me seem cross when I
really am quite the contrary. As for Mr. Bentley, I have not yet had the
honor of an introduction to him, as this dear girl can tell you.”
“But it is not his fault,” said Gillian, promptly. “I am sure he has
been anxious enough to know you, Mrs. Ransom; only it has happened that
when he called you have been absent or indisposed. But now I am
determined to bring the two people together I love best.” Here she
caught Woodworth’s glance, and shook her head lightly as if to scatter
the flood of crimson that rushed over her face. “You see—you see. Well,
really this was my entire business here. My father has decided that we
are to give a great party, something very superb, which is to honor the
introduction of his graceless child into your metropolitan society. You
have no idea how many really nice persons have called upon us, and
offered all sorts of civilities, since we opened the house; so we are
sure to have a crush of people. A dozen ladies of the first position
have offered to keep me in countenance, so I have no lack of chaperones,
but I want something more than that: my heart wants a true friend to
lean on. So the moment this idea of a chaperone was mentioned, I thought
of you and drove over at once.”
“And your father?” said Mrs. Ransom.
“Oh, he was delighted; offered to come with me and press the matter, but
somehow the fates are against me when he attempts to gain admission to
your paradise, and I ventured alone.”
“Thank you for it,” whispered Woodworth, softly. “I had a feeling that
you would be here at this hour, and alone.”
Gillian answered something in a low voice; but her eyes followed Mrs.
Ransom, who had moved away, apparently attracted by the manœuvring of a
sloop that was tacking up the river.
Gillian and Woodworth walked toward her, for the generous girl had her
heart in the subject under discussion, and was eager for a reply.
“Oh, my dear madam, do not turn away, for that looks like a refusal to
help me preside over this formidable party, and I shall never get along
without you,” she said, caressingly, “Surely I have asked nothing that
should make you so grave.”
“Nothing, dear child, that is not both kind and flattering; but I seldom
go into fashionable society, or indeed anywhere outside of my own little
knot of friends.”
“But you will not really refuse me?” cried Gillian, distressed. “Oh, Mr.
Woodworth, help me to persuade her; tell her that I am, at any rate,
half an orphan, and have no mother to stand by me on this occasion,
which will be a very trying one; for though I seem so reckless and
self-sustained, it isn’t real courage, I assure you—only a trembling
sort of bravado. Persuade her; do, for her forehead is cloudy yet.”
Mrs. Ransom turned suddenly with one of those luminous smiles on her
face, which always won smiles in return.
“No, Gillian,” she said, “you must not ask that; no person living can
interpose between us. We are friends, sworn friends remember; and even
Woodworth, highly as I prize him, would wrong that friendship in urging
a thing which I had forced myself to deny you.”
“But you will not deny me?”
“Dear, dear child, give me a little time: remember this is a severe
ordeal you propose for a woman who has kept out of the world so long,
and I too am a sort of coward in social gatherings of this kind where so
many will be strangers.”
“‘Strangers!’ No, indeed, our guests are not so ignorant as that; you
are one, dear lady, whose name tells a history. It will be a proud day
for my father when he presents you as the dearest and most honored
friend of his child; as for me, I shall only feel indignant if they do
not all worship you for yourself as well as your books.”
“My dear, dear child!” Julia broke off and choked back a sob. “There,
there, give me a little time, if it is only to think about the dress;
one must be very magnificent, you know.”
“Yes, yes, I have thought that all over; of course, you must be superb,
something grand and queenly; black velvet or crimson.”
“What, and the roses in bloom?”
“Oh, I had forgotten: you see how little I am to be trusted. Well, black
lace then, with some of these same roses in your hair and on your
bosom.”
The young girl was so animated, the color came and went so brightly on
her face, that Julia became interested in spite of herself; to own the
truth, a strong desire sprang up in her heart to attend this party.
According to her old habit she turned away and walked alone, evidently
under considerable excitement. Directly she came back more quietly.
“But you have an aunt: how will she like this intrusion of a stranger
into your household?”
“What, Aunt Hetty? Why she would drop down at the very thought of
standing by my side on an occasion like that. You have no idea what a
timid, nervous little thing she is. The very sight of a stranger sets
her to trembling: it is quite painful to see how she suffers.”
“And this is all the companion you have?”
“Not quite; but then my cousin is scarcely a year older than myself, and
has been brought up in the country, so that you would be doing her a
charity also, for her only female protector just now is an old colored
woman, who insists on teaching the proprieties of fashionable life to us
both. I wish you could see Dinah in her glory, she is such a character!”
“Well, well! Let us hold a consultation. Suppose you turn this affair
into a fancy ball. What say you, Mr. Woodworth?”
“Just the thing. I thought you would suggest something of this kind; a
mere party filled up with dancing, flirting, eating and drinking, is at
all times a bore.”
“A fancy ball!” cried Gillian, sparkling with delight. “And you really
will take a part? and you, Mr. Woodworth?”
“Now that I am invited—yes.”
“And you, Mrs Ransom?”
“I think—yes, I _will_ go.”
“Oh, you are so good; and I can tell papa that it is all settled. And
now about the characters.”
“For me,” said Mrs. Ransom, “let it be something grave and quiet, say a
nun or sister of charity.”
“No, no,” cried Gillian, “that will never do. Let it be something
stately.”
“Well, be it so. A lady of Louis the Fifteenth’s court, with powder,
patches and brocade. Will that do?”
Mrs. Ransom spoke thoughtfully, and with but little of the animation
which the subject might be expected to produce. She gave so much
importance to the character she was to assume that both Gillian and
Woodworth were surprised.
“And you,” said Woodworth, addressing Gillian, “what is your character
to be?”
He spoke in a low voice, and Gillian answered him under her breath.
“Any thing that you choose!”
His face flushed with pleasure.
“Let it be Aurora, then, for without you my days would be all darkness.”
The eyes which she lifted to his beamed with an expression so beautiful
that his heart swelled, and the very breath he drew came laden with
exquisite joy.
They stood together silent and happy. Mrs. Ransom had left them suddenly
and was walking toward the house. In her presence they could talk on
general subjects, but now excess of feeling struck them mute; but it was
a silence so delicious that neither had a wish to break it. At last
Gillian drew a deep breath, and reaching forth her hand lifted her
heavenly face to his.
“Follow her,” she said. “Have I been selfish in urging her to join us?”
“Selfish—no. It is better that she should appear in society: no woman
living can grace it so well.”
“Persuade her of this: and now go.”
“Do you weary of me?”
“Weary! how can you think it? But all this makes me dizzy. I will return
home without entering the house again.”
“And to-morrow?”
“To-morrow, come to my father.”
“And after that? Ah, Gillian, this happiness terrifies me; my life seems
too full of wealth. God bless you forever and ever, for giving me this
one hour.”
She drew toward him as a bird of paradise moves in the sunshine. Her
eyes shone with love; her mouth trembled like a cherry when the bird
that seeks it is near. A goddess smitten with human affections might
have looked like Gillian, and been regal still. It is only when love
imbues a proud nature like hers with tenderness, that we know how grand
a passion it is. Woodworth folded his arm around her waist and drew her
to his side.
“Gillian, are you happy?”
“Very happy!”
The words died like fragrance on her lips. He stooped down and gathered
them in kisses.
“To-morrow I will ask you of your father, Gillian. Till then I shall
doubt the reality of this happiness; I begin to tremble now with a fear
of losing you. Promise, Gillian—promise to love me forever.”
“Forever and ever!” she murmured.
“Now let me go with you to the carriage.”
“No, no, leave me a little time alone!”
He saw that she was faint with emotion, and taking compassion on her
went away; not into the house, for he too wished for solitude, but
through the grounds into the high road, down which he walked toward the
city.
Scarcely an hour had passed since Gillian entered the house, whose
balconies were visible from where she sat—one little hour and her whole
life had changed. She had for the first time in her existence listened
willingly to the passionate love of a strong man—she had stepped upon
that ledge of rocks a free woman, and now she was bound in every fibre
of her heart, in every wish of her being. The seal of a holy compact
burned on her lips, the passionate consciousness of it thrilled her
through and through. She sat down and wept like a little child, when his
last footstep died on the turf. But the tears she shed were like April
rain, and a blossom sprung up in her heart with every drop.
Mrs. Ransom saw her from the window, but forbore to disturb the dreamy
quiet into which she had fallen. Indeed she had no wish to move—hardly
the power, for the deep feelings of her own nature were in a tumult. She
was greatly disturbed by the events of that morning, and while Gillian
wept tears of happiness, hard, painful drops gathered in Julia’s eyes.
Thus smitten by a cold feeling of desolation, she went into her chamber
and shut the door.
A few minutes after she disappeared, Michael Hurst came, unannounced,
through the front door, which had been left ajar, and entering the
library looked around for its usual occupant.
“Not here,” he muttered; “I dare say she saw me coming and took herself
out of the way. Your poetess hates a drain on the purse as much as
common mortals, and I suppose she fancies I’m on that tack again. By
Jove, she’ll soon find out that I’m striking for higher stakes than
that. She must help me, too, or the game will be a difficult one to
play, for the girl is as proud as Lucifer, and unmanageable as a wild
bird; but with madam’s help all will be easy enough. After all she is a
wonderful woman, so earnest and prompt, her thoughts all poetry, her
judgment clear and practical. But then such women will think their own
thoughts and act their own acts, there is the mischief of it; I hardly
dare confide in her yet, not till I have seen this proud girl and tried
her temper on the subject. But then how can I see this Gillian alone?
She is so hedged in with her pride of station that, with the poor old
maid ready to help me in any thing, with free access to the house,
backed by Lawrence with the father, I have not in two months been able
to get one moment of private conversation with her. By Jove, there she
is now, and alone!”
The young man sprang from his seat as he uttered these last words, and
clearing the veranda with a bound made his way toward the ledge where
Gillian was sitting.
She was too busy with her own pleasant thoughts to remark his approach;
and he, with that instinctive respect which forces itself on the most
depraved when in the presence of a noble woman, curbed his headlong
progress, and almost held his breath when he drew near her.
She was stooping to pick up the roses that had fallen upon the moss,
when her heart first leaped to the offered love of Woodworth. Every bud
and leaf was precious to her now; and she gathered them up reverently,
as if they had been severed on a sacred altar. For all her wealth she
would not have parted with the smallest spray clasped in those trembling
hands.
“Miss Bentley!”
Gillian started——clasped her fingers tighter about the roses, and
turning her face over one shoulder, saw with impatience that young Hurst
stood upon the very moss which was still imprinted by the feet of her
accepted lover.
Now this man had rendered himself odious to the young girl: first, by
connecting himself with the only misunderstanding that she had ever
experienced with her aunt; and again, from the manner in which he had
presumed on the partiality of that lady to force himself into familiar
relations with the family. True, the introduction and indorsement of Mr.
Lawrence, a man of high standing both in the commercial and social
world, had reconciled Mr. Bentley to the acquaintance. But Gillian
shrunk from it with the quick intuition of a delicate nature. In his
manner, and in the words which he sometimes found an opportunity of
forcing upon her, there was an attempt at gallantry which irritated her
pride. She could understand the petty manœuvres by which he had sought
to ingratiate himself into her favor, and held them in gentle contempt.
It was with a sort of terror that, seeing him so near, she arose
quickly, and looked around for a path by which she might descend the
ledge of rocks.
“Miss Bentley, do not seek to avoid me so pointedly. The happiness of
finding you alone for one moment has, perhaps, made me over-bold; but,
when the heart is full of one great wish it forgets ceremony. Don’t go!
Don’t turn that sweet face away! Are you afraid of me?”
The quick pride sparkled up from Gillian’s heart to her eyes.
“Afraid! No, indeed. What is there for me to fear from your presence,
Mr. Hurst? You came abruptly, and I was startled a little—that is all.”
“Oh, if you did but know how I have watched and prayed for this hour!”
“And why, Mr. Hurst? I have seen you almost every day for a month;
certainly every day since my cousin, Miss Hart, came to the city.”
He looked at her keenly. Had he, indeed, succeeded in making her jealous
by his flirtation with the pretty country-girl? Surely that brilliant
eye and the curve of her haughty lip was a proof of feminine pique that
could spring from no other cause.
He drew close to Gillian, but she stepped haughtily back and shielded
her roses from his outstretched hand as if it had been a serpent
attempting to creep over them.
“And did you really think my attention to the pretty rustic sprang from
any thing but a wish to be near you?” he said, with infinite humility
and tenderness in his voice. “You must have seen how entirely my whole
heart has been yours since the first time that I saw you in that library
yonder, Miss Bentley. Oh, Gillian, no man ever adored a woman as I
worship you. Have compassion on me, and listen kindly for this once: I
know that I am not your equal, as far as appearances are concerned; but
circumstances may bring us nearer to a level——nay, by heavens! they
shall!”
“Mr. Hurst, this is wild—worse, it is almost insulting! What, in my
whole conduct, has warranted this address?”
She turned, and attempted to pass him; but he stood firm, blocking her
progress.
“There is no insult in an honest expression of love,” he said, looking
almost as haughty as herself. “I have a right to be heard, and to demand
a civil answer, at least. Nay, do not rain down so much scorn from those
beautiful eyes! In this country there exist no social distinctions which
energy and a strong will cannot overcome. You have money, intellect,
beauty. I am neither hideous nor a fool. As for wealth, that is easily
earned, and I am as likely to obtain it as another. Why, then, should
you look as if a serf were addressing you?”
There was truth in his words, and Gillian felt that her impulsive pride
had given him an excuse for prolonging the conversation. She simply
moved away from the spot which his presence seemed to desecrate, and,
signifying by a bend of her head that he might follow, walked toward the
river. There she found an iron garden-chair, and sat down, while he
stood before her, pale with internal rage at her coolness, and with
drops of perspiration starting to his forehead.
She looked up, quietly, and said, in her usual clear voice,
“Now, Mr. Hurst, I will listen. You say justly the offer of an honest
heart can never be considered as an insult. You took me by surprise. I
beg your pardon!”
The color came up to his face; he was almost in tears, for he had told
the truth. With all the force of his good and evil passions he loved the
young girl before him. He loved her, and knew that from her composure
and humility there was less to hope than from the angry pride with which
she at first received him. His voice was broken, and there was genuine
feeling in his words as he spoke again.
“I thank you, Miss Bentley, for this kindness; yet it only gives me an
opportunity of repeating more respectfully what I have already said. I
love you—with all my soul and strength I love you! Have you nothing to
give in return to a poor fellow who lays all that he has, or hopes for,
at your feet?”
Gillian was troubled. Her pure forehead gathered together in a cloud.
She thought, how terrible a thing it must be to love without return, and
her heart thrilled with compassion for a man she could not even like.
“No,” she said, with sweet humility, “it would be cruel and wrong to
mislead you. I have no feelings that could answer to those you offer. In
my whole life I have never regarded you with a thought of love. At this
moment you stand higher in my esteem than ever, but it is sorrow,
regret, I will not say compassion, that I feel——not love! Forgive me——do
forgive me, if what I say is painful; but I can only ask you to forget
all this, and let us never meet again.”
He stood for a moment, gazing upon her face; his own was pale as
death—pale and stormy with a strife of passions.
“No!” he said, at last, “we shall meet again, and often. The stake
between us two is heavy, and we must not play out our game at a sitting;
one thing is certain: you and I must be lovers, or enemies; married, or
one of us ruined. But your rejection need not be final. I will not take
it as such for your own sake—for your father’s sake!”
“Stay!” cried Gillian, lifting her head, and sweeping by him like a
goddess, “I have no patience to listen farther; yonder is Mrs. Ransom on
the veranda.”
“Beware, Miss Bentley, how you make that woman your confidante!” he
persisted, following her.
She turned upon him with all the pride of her superb nature.
“Have no fear, sir, that I shall not conceal the degradation of this
interview.”
The young man fairly ground his teeth in the deadly rage that seized
upon him; but she swept forward toward the verandah, where Mrs. Ransom
was waiting for her, and, after a few words, went hurriedly to her
carriage.
Those few words were very simple and unimportant, but they had a
terrible influence on the future; not in themselves, but from the
honorable secrecy which Gillian felt bound to maintain regarding the
proposal which had been forced upon her.
When Mrs. Ransom inquired, with evident anxiety, what young Hurst had
been talking of so earnestly, Gillian answered, vaguely:
“Oh, it was a private affair of his own, in which he wanted my
co-operation.”
“Which you refused?”
“Of course, dear lady. What can that man and I have in common?—nothing,
I am quite sure. But, yourself, what has happened to distress you?”
“Nothing; but, Gillian, the glow of happiness has all fled from your
face.”
Gillian laid one hand on her heart, and answered, with a beautiful
smile,
“But it is here yet. He frighted away my dreams, but not this holy
reality.”
The carriage drove away. Mrs. Ransom followed it with a long, wistful
look, and entered her library again. Here she had expected to find
Michael, but the room was empty, and there was no trace of him in the
grounds.