Part 22 (1/2)

”Now, Mr. Bertram, you are hardly so sincere as you a.s.serted yourself to be, and required me to be on the mount. You are yourself quite aware that n.o.body has thought you presumptuous. I have nothing to complain of, and much to thank you for--independently of the honour you have now done me;--for from you it is an honour. But I cannot say that I love you. It would not be natural that I should do so.”

”Good heavens! not natural. I love you with the whole strength of my heart. Is that unnatural?”

”It is the province of men to take the initiative in such matters,”

said Caroline, smiling.

”I know nothing as to man's province, or of woman's province either.

By province, you mean custom and conventional rule; and conventional rule means falsehood. I have known you but a week or two, and I love you dearly. You, of course, have known me as long, and are at any rate as capable of loving as I am. There would be nothing unnatural in you loving me--though, indeed, it may be very unlikely that you should do so.”

”Well; I will not contradict you in anything if I can help it, except perhaps as to that last little would-be-proud, petulant protest. But putting out of sight all question of likelihood, what ought I to do if I do not love you? What in such a case would you recommend a sister to do? Is it not better that we should not be immediately thrown together, as must so certainly be the case in travelling?”

”Then I am to understand that you positively can never love me?”

”I have not said so: but you press me unfairly, Mr. Bertram.”

”Unfairly. No, by heavens! no pressure in such case can be unfair. I would press the truth out from you--the real truth; the truth that so vitally concerns myself. You will not say that you have an aversion to me?”

”Aversion! No, certainly not.”

”Or that you cannot love me? Then why not let us remain together? You argue that you do not yet know me well enough; will not that be the way to know me better?”

”If I were to travel with you now, Mr. Bertram, it would be tantamount to accepting you. Your own sense will certainly tell you that. Were I to do so, I should give you the privilege of coming with me as my lover. Forgive me for saying that I cannot give you that privilege. I grieve to hurt your feelings for a day even; but I am sure you will ultimately approve of what I am doing.”

”And are we to meet no more, then?”

”Of course we shall meet again; at least, in all human probability.

My guardian is your uncle.”

”I never even knew that till I met you the other day.”

”Because you have always been at school or at college; but you know it now. I, at least, shall look forward to meeting you--and so will my aunt.”

”Yes; as acquaintances. It would be impossible for me to meet you in that way. I hardly think you know or realize what my feelings to you are. I can only meet you to tell you again and again that I love you. You are so cold yourself that you cannot understand my--my--my impetuosity, if you choose to call it so.”

”In three or four months, Mr. Bertram, you will be laughing at your own impetuosity--when I perhaps shall be grieving over my own coldness.” These last words she said with a smile in which there was much archness, and perhaps also a little encouragement.

”You will tell me at any rate that I may hope?”

”No; certainly not. You will hope enough for anything you really desire without my telling you. But I will not joke, as I believe that you are serious.”

”Oh, you believe so, do you?”

”Yes; I suppose I must believe so. Your declaration the other day took me very much by surprise. I had no conception that you had any feelings towards me of that sort. I certainly had entertained none such towards you. Love with me cannot be the birth of a moment. I cannot say that I will love merely because I am asked. You would not wish me to be false even in your own favour. We will part now, Mr.

Bertram; and being apart we shall better learn to know, each of us, how we value the other. On my part I can truly say that I hope we shall meet again--at any rate, as friends.” And then she held out her hand to him.

”Is this to be our farewell?” said he, without at once taking it.

”It shall be if you so please. We shall meet again only at the public table.”

”And you will not tell me that I may hope?”