But whither should she go? No place was even suggested to her. And were she herself to consult some other friend as to a place—the clergyman of their own parish for instance, who out of that house was her most intimate friend—she would have to tell the whole story, a story which could not be told by her lips. Philip had never said a word to her, except that one word: “You have grown to be the loveliest woman that ever I looked upon.” The word was very frequent in her thoughts, but she could tell no one of that!
If he did think her lovely, if he did love her, why should not things run smoothly? She had found it to be quite out of the question that she should be driven into the arms of Mr. Morrison, but she soon came to own to herself that she might easily be enticed into those other arms. But then perhaps he had meant nothing—so probably had meant nothing! But if not, why should she be driven away from Launay? As her aunt became worse and worse, and when Philip came down from London, and with Philip a London physician, nothing was settled about poor Bessy, and nothing was done. When Philip and Bessy stood together at the sick woman’s bedside she was nearly insensible, wandering in her mind, but still with that care heavy at her heart. “No, Philip; no, no, no,” she said. “What is it, mother?” asked Philip. Then Bessy escaped from the room and resolved that she would always be absent when Philip was by his mother’s bedside.
There was a week in which the case was almost hopeless; and then a week during which the mistress of Launay crept slowly back to life. It could not but be that they two should see much of each other during such weeks. At every meal they sat together. Bessy was still constant at the bedside of her aunt, but now and again she was alone with Philip. At first she struggled to avoid him, but she struggled altogether in vain. He would not be avoided. And then of course he spoke. “Bessy, I am sure you know that I love you.”
“I am sure I hope you do,” she replied, purposely misinterpreting him.
Then he frowned at her. “I am sure, Bessy, you are above all subterfuges.”
“What subterfuges? Why do you say that?”
“You are no sister of mine; no cousin even. You know what I mean when I say that I love you. Will you be my wife?”
Oh! if she might only have knelt at his feet and hidden her face among her hands, and have gladly answered him with a little “Yes,” extracted from amidst her happy blushes! But, in every way, there was no time for such joys. “Philip, think how ill your mother is,” she said.
“That cannot change it. I have to ask you whether you can love me. I am bound to ask you whether you will love me.” She would not answer him then; but during that second week in which Mrs. Miles was creeping back to life she swore that she did love him, and would love him, and would be true to him for ever and ever.