"No, I am here--I will see any one."
And so he came in, but it was not the one I expected. It was Mr.
Gregory.
I think that he found my embarrassment on greeting him both gratifying
and encouraging, but its cause was alien to his thought. I was brought
back from another world, as it were, with a rude shock, and in my
enfeebled condition, consequent upon a severe illness could not control
myself. Indeed I did not feel that I was mistress of myself at any time
during the evening.
After a word or two, which I cannot recall, I stammered out:
"I was not expecting you this evening--I had not sent for you."
"I know that you have not," he answered--then dropping his voice a
trifle, he added, "I could not wait any longer--I found it difficult to
wait so long as this. I hardly dared hope that I might see you this
evening, but I felt I must try."
Intent upon sparing him the pain of a spoken declaration, I exclaimed:
"Oh, Mr. Gregory, don't! please don't say anything more. I am not
deserving of your esteem and kindness."
He came nearer me, and his voice was at once tender and reverent, as he
said:
"You are more than worthy of what I have to offer, which is myself, and
all that I have."
"Don't!" I cried again; "don't say anything more! Let us imagine this
unsaid!"
"Such words can never be recalled," he said gravely.
"They must be," I persisted; "I cannot accept! I have nothing to give in
return!"
A look of disappointment came over his face, and if I mistake not, it
was shaded with displeasure. "I hardly expected this, Miss Leigh, I have
hardly been led to expect this."
"I know what you mean, Mr. Gregory," I replied, more calmly than I had
spoken before; "I know that I have accepted your attentions--you have had
every reason to expect a different answer. I'll not try to deceive you,
or keep anything from you. I'll tell you that I have not been trifling.
I have understood you for some time----"
He interrupted me here.
"Yes, you must have done so; my attentions to you could have but one
interpretation, if I were a man of honor, and you knew I was that."
"I did, indeed," I exclaimed. And then my mind went, with a flash like
lightning, to Randolph Chance, and I felt a sudden resentment. Had not
he shown me attentions that no man of honor can bestow upon a woman,
unless he wishes to make her his wife? Why had he left me in this
strait? Why had he not spoken out? Why had he not claimed before the
world that which he had taken such pains to win? I was uncertain about
Randolph Chance; I had never been uncertain about Mr. Gregory. Why?
Because I had perfect confidence in his honor. Was he not the better
man--the more trustworthy? Why could I not marry him? I loved another
man. A wave of shame and anger swept my face.
"I have all along been expecting to marry you. I have not been
trifling," I cried out.
He stepped forward, and took my hand. It was as cold as ice.
"What is it then, Constance, that has changed you? Have I done anything
since your illness to make you think less of me?"
I trembled from head to foot, and my lips were so stiff and dry that
they scarce would do my bidding. I must have spoken very indistinctly.
"No--no," I said slowly; "I will tell you everything--I have done you a
wrong, an unintentional wrong, but I will do penance--I have seen myself
to-night--" I paused here; Mr. Gregory was a practical man; had I told
him that a vision had changed my attitude, he would have thought me
insane. I myself had begun to entertain doubts as to my sanity. "I know
myself now," I faltered, "I know my heart--I love another man."
Mr. Gregory rose, and began pacing the floor.
"This surprises me greatly," he said at length; "there must have been
another courtship--it would seem that you must have known something of
how matters were tending."
"I have known nothing until to-night. There has been no courtship, in
the ordinary acceptation of that word--I'll tell you all, even if it
humbles me completely, as a penalty for what I have done to you. The
man I love--" I could feel the blood mantling my face and neck, "has
never addressed me."
Mr. Gregory paused, and looked at me.
"This is extraordinary," he said.
"It is--I know it is--it is most of all so to me, for it is wholly unlike
what I have been all my life."
"Let us not talk of this any more to-night, Miss Leigh," he said, with
evident relief; "I have been wrong to press this matter now, when you
are hardly recovered. You are not yourself. This is something
transitory, no doubt. Later on, you may feel differently."
"No, no!" I exclaimed eagerly, "now that we have begun, let us say it
all. Don't--I beg of you, don't go away with a feeling that I don't know
my mind. I am weak and miserable to-night--" here the tears choked my
voice, and I all but broke down, "but I am miserable because I have
learned my true feeling, and know that I must disappoint----"