“And why,” I gently asked, with a sense of struggling for my life, “can we never be friends?”
Her answer was a deep blush; not that timid conscious appeal of the blood that is beating too warmly for reply, but the quick flush of indignant generosity forced to do despite to its own instincts.
“That is a question I would rather not answer,” she murmured at length. “Only it is so; or I should not speak in this way.”
“But,” I ventured, resolved to know on just what foundations my happiness was tottering, “you will at least tell me if this harsh decree is owing to any offence I myself may have inadvertently given. The honor of your acquaintance,” I went on, determined she should know just what a hope she was slaying, “is much too earnestly desired, for me to wilfully hazard its loss by saying or doing aught that could be in any way displeasing to you.”
“You have done nothing but what was generous,” said she with increasing womanliness of manner, “unless it was taking advantage of my being here, to learn my name and gain an introduction to me after I had desired you to forget my very existence.”
I recoiled at that, the chord of my self-respect was touched. “It was not here I learned your name, Miss Preston. It has been known to me for two weeks. At the risk of losing by your displeasure what is already hazarded by your prudence, I am bound to acknowledge that from the hour I left your father’s house that night, I have spared no effort compatible with my deep respect for your feelings, to ascertain who the young lady was that had done me such an honor, and won from me such a deep regard. I had not intended to tell you this,” I added, “but your truth has awakened mine, and whatever the result may be, you must see me as I am.”
“You are very kind,” she replied governing with growing skill the trembling of her voice. “The acquaintance of a girl of sixteen is not worth so much trouble on the part of a man like yourself.” And blushing with the vague apprehension of her sex in the presence of a devotion she rather feels than understands, she waved her trembling little hand and paused irresolute, seemingly anxious to terminate the interview but as yet too inexperienced to know how to manage a dismissal requiring so much tact and judgment.
I saw, comprehended her position and hesitated. She was so young, uncle, her prospects in life were so bright; if I left her then, in a couple of weeks she would forget me. What was I that I should throw the shadow of manhood’s deepest emotion across the paradise of her young untrammelled being. But the old Adam of selfishness has his say in my soul as well as in that of my fellow-men, and forgetting myself enough to glance at her half averted face, I could not remember myself sufficiently afterwards to forego without a struggle, all hope of some day beholding that soft cheek turn in confidence at my approach.
“Miss Preston,” said I, “the promise of the bud atones for its folded leaves.” Then with a fervor I did not seek to disguise, “You say we cannot be friends; would your decision be the same if this were our first meeting?”
Again that flush of outraged feeling. “I don’t know—yes I think—I fear it would.”