“Oh, Adolphus, for mercy’s sake don’t say so!”
“But I do say so, Fanny. God knows, not to wound you, or for any unworthy purpose, but because it is so. He was your lover, and you sent him away; you cannot whistle him back as you would a dog.”
Fanny made no answer to this, but walked on towards the house, anxious to find herself alone in her own room, that she might compose her mind and think over all that she had heard and said; nor did Lord Kilcullen renew the conversation till he got to the house. He could not determine what to do. Under other circumstances it might, he felt, have been wise for him to wait till time had weakened Fanny’s regret for her lost lover; but in his case this was impracticable; if he waited anywhere it would be in the Queen’s Bench. And yet, he could not but feel that, at present, it was hopeless for him to push his suit.
They reached the steps together, and as he opened the front door, Fanny turned round to wish him good morning, as she was hurrying in; but he stopped her, and said,
“One word more, Fanny, before we part. You must not refuse me; nor must we part in this way. Step in here; I will not keep you a minute;” and he took her into a room off the hall—“do not let us be children, Fanny; do not let us deceive each other, or ourselves: do not let us persist in being irrational if we ourselves see that we are so;” and he paused for a reply.
“Well, Adolphus?” was all she said.
“If I could avoid it,” continued he, “I would not hurt your feelings; but you must see, you must know, that you cannot marry Lord Ballindine.”—Fanny, who was now sitting, bit her lips and clenched her hands, but she said nothing; “If this is so—if you feel that so far your fate is fixed, are you mad enough to give yourself up to a vain and wicked passion—for wicked it will be? Will you not rather strive to forget him who has forgotten you?”
“That is not true,” interposed Fanny.
“His conduct, unfortunately, proves that it is too true,” continued Kilcullen. “He has forgotten you, and you cannot blame him that he should do so, now that you have rejected him; but he neglected you even before you did so. Is it wise, is it decorous, is it maidenly in you, to indulge any longer in so vain a passion? Think of this, Fanny. As to myself, Heaven knows with what perfect truth, with what true love, I offered you, this morning, all that a man can offer: how ardently I hoped for an answer different from that you have now given me. You cannot give me your heart now; love cannot, at a moment, be transferred. But think, Fanny, think whether it is not better for you to accept an offer which your friends will all approve, and which I trust will never make you unhappy, than to give yourself up to a lasting regret,—to tears, misery, and grief.”
“And would you take my hand without my heart?” said she.