Part 39 (2/2)
The natural consequence was that she had grown somewhat weary of listening to the praises of their hero, and felt disposed to consider him as either much too superior to be thoroughly nice, or much too nice to be all that his womenfolk described him.
Of some of his estimable qualities, however, she had had personal experience; and, notably of his lavish generosity. A few days ago he had taken them all to the shop of a dealer of old-fas.h.i.+oned works of art and rare curiosities, declaring that he had brought them there for the express purpose of giving them a memento of Florence before they left the city.
Then he bade them choose, and, leaving Edith and Mrs. Hartley to make their own selection, which they did modestly enough, letting him off at about a sovereign a-piece, he insisted on prompting and practically dictating the choice of Lettice, who, by constraint and cajolery together, was made to carry away a set of intaglios that must have cost him fifty pounds at least.
She had no idea of their value, but she was uneasy at having taken the gift. What would he conclude from her acceptance of such a valuable present? It was true that she was covered to some extent by the fact that Edith and Mrs. Hartley were with her at the time, but she could not feel satisfied about the propriety of her conduct, and she had a subtle argument with herself as to the necessity of returning the gems sooner or later, unless she was prepared to be compromised in the opinion of her three friends.
She had for the present, however, banished these unpleasant doubts from her mind, and the guilty author of her previous discomfort stood idly by her side, smoking his cigar, and watching the people as they pa.s.sed along the road. The other ladies were out of sight, and thus Brooke and Lettice were left alone.
After a time she noticed the absence of her friends, and turned round quickly to look for them. Brooke saw the action, and felt that if he did not speak now he might never get such a good opportunity. So, with nothing but instinct for his guide, he plunged into the business without further hesitation.
”I hope you will allow, Miss Campion, that I know how to be silent when the occasion requires it! I did not break in upon your reverie, and should not have done so, however long it might have lasted.”
”I am sorry you have had to stand sentinel,” said Lettice; ”but you told me once that a woman never need pity a man for being kept waiting so long as he had a cigar to smoke.”
”That is quite true; and I have not been an object for pity at all.
Unless you will pity me for having to bring my holiday to an end. You know that Edith and I are leaving Florence on Monday?”
”Yes, Edith told me; but she did not speak as though it would end your holiday. She said that you might go on to Rome--that you had not made up your mind what to do.”
”That is so--it depends upon circ.u.mstances, and the decision does not altogether rest with us. Indeed, Miss Campion, my future movements are quite uncertain until I have obtained your answer to a question which I want to put to you. May I put it now?”
”If there is anything I can tell you--” said Lettice, not without difficulty. Her breath came quick, and her bosom heaved beneath her light dress with nervous rapidity. What could he have to say to her? She had refused all these weeks to face the idea which had been forcing itself upon her; and he had been so quiet, so unemotional, that until now she had never felt uneasy in his presence.
”You can tell me a great deal,” said Brooke, looking down at her with increased earnestness and tenderness in his eyes and voice. Her face was half averted from him, but he perceived her emotion, and grew more hopeful at the sign. ”You can tell me all I want to know; but, unless you have a good message for me, I shall wish I had not asked you my question, and broken through the friendly terms of intercourse from which I have derived so much pleasure, and which have lasted so long between us.”
Why did he pause? What could she say that he would care to hear?
”Listen to me!” he said, sinking down on the seat beside her, and pleading in a low tone. ”I am not a very young man. I am ten or twelve years older than yourself. But if I spoke with twice as much pa.s.sion in my voice, and if I had paid you ten times as much attention and court as I have done, it would not prove me more sincere in my love, or more eager to call you my wife. You cannot think how I have been looking forward to this moment--hoping and fearing from day to day, afraid to put my fate to the test, and yet impatient to know if I had any chance of happiness. I loved you in London--I believe I loved you as soon as I knew you; and it was simply and solely in order to try and win your love that I followed you to Italy. Is there no hope for me?”
She did not answer. She could not speak a word, for a storm of conflicting feelings was raging in her breast. Feelings only--she had not begun to think.
”If you will try to love me,” he went on, ”it will be as much as I have dared to hope. If you will only begin by liking me, I think I can succeed in gaining what will perfectly satisfy me. All my life shall be devoted to giving you the happiness which you deserve. Lettice, have you not a word to say to me?”
”I cannot--” she whispered at length, so faintly that he could scarcely hear.
”Cannot even like me!”
”Oh, do not ask me that! I cannot answer you. If liking were all--but you would not be content with that.”
”Say that you like me. Lettice, have a little pity on the heart that loves you!”
”What answer can I give? An hour ago I liked you. Do you not see that what you have said makes the old liking impossible?”
”Yes--I know it. And I have thrown away all because I wanted more! I spoke too suddenly. But do not, at any rate, forbid me still to nurse my hope. I will try and be patient. I will come to you again for my answer--when? In a month--in six months? Tell me only one thing--there is no one who has forestalled me? You are not pledged to another?”
Lettice stood up--the effort was necessary in order to control her beating heart and trembling nerves. She did not reply. She only looked out to the sunlit landscape with wide, unseeing eyes, in which lurked a secret, unspoken dread.
”Tell me before we part,” he said, in a voice which was hoa.r.s.e with suppressed pa.s.sion. ”Say there is no one to whom you have given your love!”
”There is no one!”--But the answer ended in a gasp that was almost a sob.
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