She did not speak. Her colour varied a little, and her brows contracted with a slight look of pain.
"I do not know how to be silent any longer," he said, raising his eyes to her face, with a grave and manly resolve in their brown depths. "I have thought a great deal about it—about you; and it seems to me that there is no real reason why I should not speak. You are of age; you can do as you please; and I could work for both—because—Elizabeth—I love you."
It was brokenly, awkwardly said, after all; but more completely uttered, perhaps, than if he had told his tale at greater length, for then he would have been stopped before he reached the end. As it was, Elizabeth's look of terror and dismay brought him to a sudden pause.
"Oh, no!" she said, "no; you don't mean that. Take back what you have said, Mr. Stretton."
"I cannot take it back," he said, quickly, "and I would not if I could; because you love me, too."
The conviction of his words made her turn pale. She darted a distressed look at him, half-rose from her seat, and then sat down again. Twice she tried to speak and failed, for her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. But at last she found her voice.
"You do not know," she said, hurriedly and hoarsely, "that I am engaged to my cousin Percival."
He rose to his feet, and withdrew two or three paces, looking down on her in silent consternation. She did not lift her eyes, but she felt that his gaze was upon her. It seemed to pierce to the very marrow of her bones, to the bottom of her heart.
"Is this true?" he said at last, in a voice as changed as her own had been—hoarse and broken almost beyond recognition. "And you never told me?"
"Why should I have told you? Only my uncle knows. It was a secret," she answered, in a clearer and colder tone. "I am sorry you did not know."