Part 38 (1/2)
Suddenly raising his head, he looks at her, his whole heart in his expression, his eyes full of purpose. Instinctively she feels the warmth, the tenderness of his glance, and changes from a calm lily into an expectant rose. Her hand trembles within his, as though meditating flight, and then lies pa.s.sive as his clasp tightens firmly upon it.
Slowly, reluctantly, as though compelled by some hidden force, she turns her averted eyes to his.
”Cecilia,” murmurs he, imploringly, and then--and then their lips meet, and they kiss each other solemnly, with a pa.s.sionate tenderness, knowing it is their betrothal they are sealing.
”I wish I had summoned courage to kiss you a week ago,” he says, presently. He is inside the gate now, and seems to have lost in this shamefully short time all the hesitation and modesty that a few minutes ago were so becoming. His arm is around her; even as he makes this _risque_ remark, he stoops and embraces her again, without even having the grace to ask permission, while she (that I should live to say it of Cecilia!) never reproves him.
”Why?” she asks, smiling up at him.
”See how I have wasted seven good days,” returns he, drinking in gladly all the beauty of her face and smile. ”This day last week I might have been as happy as I am now,--whereas I was the most miserable wretch alive, the victim of suspense.”
”You bore your misery admirably: had you not told me, I should never have guessed your wretchedness. Besides, how do you know I should have been so kind to you seven long days ago?”
”I know it,--because you love me.”
”And how do you know that either?” asks she, with new-born coquetry that sits very sweetly upon her. ”Cyril, when did you begin to love me?”
”The very moment I first saw you.”
”No, no; I do not want compliments from _you_: I want the very honest truth. Tell me.”
”I have told you. The honest truth is this. That morning after your arrival when I restored your terrier to you, I fell in love with you: you little thought then, when I gave your dog into your keeping, I was giving my heart also.”
”No,” in a low, soft voice, that somehow has a smile in it, ”how could I? I am glad you loved me always,--that there was no time when I was indifferent to you. I think love at first sight must be the sweetest and truest of all.”
”You have the best of it, then, have you not?” with a rather forced laugh. ”Not only did I love you from the first moment I saw you, but you are the only woman I ever really cared for; while you,” with some hesitation, and turning his eyes steadily away from hers, ”you--of course--did love--once before.”
”Never!”
The word comes with startling vehemence from between her lips, the new and brilliant gladness of her face dies from it. A little chill shudder runs through all her frame, turning her to stone; drawing herself with determination from his encircling arms, she stands somewhat away from him.
”It is time I told you my history,” she says, in cold, changed tones, through which quivers a ring of pain, while her face grows suddenly as pale, as impenetrable as when they were yet quite strangers to each other. ”Perhaps when you hear it you may regret your words of to-night.”
There is a doubt, a weariness in her voice that almost angers him.
”Nonsense!” he says, roughly, the better to hide the emotion he feels; ”don't be romantic; n.o.body commits murder, or petty larceny, or bigamy nowadays, without being found out; unpleasant mysteries, and skeletons in the closet have gone out of fas.h.i.+on. We put all our skeletons in the _Times_ now, no matter how we may have to blush for their nakedness. I don't want to hear anything about your life if it makes you unhappy to tell it.”
”It doesn't make me unhappy.”
”But it does. Your face has grown quite white, and your eyes are full of tears. Darling, I won't have you distress yourself for me.”
”I have not committed any of the crimes you mention, or any other particular crime,” returns she, with a very wan little smile. ”I have only been miserable ever since I can remember. I have not spoken about myself to any one for years, except one friend; but now I should like to tell you everything.”
”But not there!” holding out his hands to her reproachfully. ”I don't believe I could hear you if you spoke from such a distance.” There is exactly half a yard of sward between them. ”If you are willfully bent on driving us both to the verge of melancholy, at least let us meet our fate together.”
Here he steals his arm round her once more, and, thus supported, and with her head upon his shoulder, she commences her short story:
”Perhaps you know my father was a Major in the Scots Greys; your brother knew him: his name was Duncan.”
Cyril starts involuntarily.
”Ah, you start. You, too, knew him?”