Part 60 (1/2)
”I have a regard for you.”
”Then why will you not be my wife? Oh, Lily, say the word now, here, at once. Say the word, and you'll make me the happiest fellow in all England.” As he spoke he took her by both arms, and held her fast.
She did not struggle to get away from him, but stood quite still, looking into his face, while the first sparkle of a salt tear formed itself in each eye. ”Lily, one little word will do it,--half a word, a nod, a smile. Just touch my arm with your hand and I will take it for a yes.” I think that she almost tried to touch him; that the word was in her throat, and that she almost strove to speak it. But there was no syllable spoken, and her fingers did not loose themselves to fall upon his sleeve. ”Lily, Lily, what can I say to you?”
”I wish I could,” she whispered;--but the whisper was so hoa.r.s.e that he hardly recognized the voice.
”And why can you not? What is there to hinder you? There is nothing to hinder you, Lily.”
”Yes, John; there is that which must hinder me.”
”And what is it?”
”I will tell you. You are so good and so true, and so excellent,--such a dear, dear, dear friend, that I will tell you everything, so that you may read my heart. I will tell you as I tell mamma,--you and her and no one else;--for you are the choice friend of my heart. I cannot be your wife because of the love I bear for another man.”
”And that man is he,--he who came here?”
”Of course it is he. I think, Johnny, you and I are alike in this, that when we have loved we cannot bring ourselves to change. You will not change, though it would be so much better you should do so.”
”No; I will never change.”
”Nor can I. When I sleep I dream of him. When I am alone I cannot banish him from my thoughts. I cannot define what it is to love him.
I want nothing from him,--nothing, nothing. But I move about through my little world thinking of him, and I shall do so to the end. I used to feel proud of my love, though it made me so wretched that I thought it would kill me. I am not proud of it any longer. It is a foolish poor-spirited weakness,--as though my heart had been only half formed in the making. Do you be stronger, John. A man should be stronger than a woman.”
”I have none of that sort of strength.”
”Nor have I. What can we do but pity each other, and swear that we will be friends,--dear friends. There is the oak-tree and I have got to turn back. We have said everything that we can say,--unless you will tell me that you will be my brother.”
”No; I will not tell you that.”
”Good-by, then, Johnny.”
He paused, holding her by the hand and thinking of another question which he longed to put to her,--considering whether he would ask her that question or not. He hardly knew whether he were ent.i.tled to ask it;--whether or no the asking of it would be ungenerous. She had said that she would tell him everything,--as she had told everything to her mother. ”Of course,” he said, ”I have no right to expect to know anything of your future intentions?”
”You may know them all,--as far as I know them myself. I have said that you should read my heart.”
”If this man, whose name I cannot bear to mention, should come again--”
”If he were to come again he would come in vain, John.” She did not say that he had come again. She could tell her own secret, but not that of another person.
”You would not marry him, now that he is free?”
She stood and thought a while before she answered him. ”No, I should not marry him now. I think not.” Then she paused again. ”Nay, I am sure I would not. After what has pa.s.sed I could not trust myself to do it. There is my hand on it. I will not.”
”No, Lily, I do not want that.”
”But I insist. I will not marry Mr. Crosbie. But you must not misunderstand me, John. There;--all that is over for me now. All those dreams about love, and marriage, and of a house of my own, and children,--and a cross husband, and a wedding-ring growing always tighter as I grow fatter and older. I have dreamed of such things as other girls do,--more perhaps than other girls, more than I should have done. And now I accept the thing as finished. You wrote something in your book, you dear John,--something that could not be made to come true. Dear John, I wish for your sake it was otherwise.
I will go home and I will write in my book, this very day, Lilian Dale, Old Maid. If ever I make that false, do you come and ask me for the page.”
”Let it remain there till I am allowed to tear it out.”