“But you shall know it at the first moment I can open my lips, and from what I have learnt of you, I know your sympathy will be with me and it.”
Gabrielle felt the colour leaving her cheeks. What could he mean? There must be some hindrance to the plan of their marriage. He had said nothing of this in his letters to her uncle—nor a word to her.
“You have turned pale, mademoiselle. Are you ill?” he asked kindly, seeing the change in her.
“No, no; but I fear I don’t understand. I have been unmaidenly and forward. But I did not know. You have said nothing of this obstacle in your letters to my uncle or to me. I thought it was settled. But I was wrong, of course; we all have been. Yet I thought when you came with no word—oh, cousin, was it manly or honourable of you not to tell me at once, not to check me? Oh, I know not what to say.”
He was as much disturbed by the change in her as he was troubled by the sight of her distress and puzzled by her words.
“Obstacle? What obstacle? What have I said to disturb you thus?” he asked. “I would do anything in the world for you.”
“You shame me, cousin.”
“Gabrielle, on my honour, I know not what you mean?” he cried, with whole-hearted earnestness.
She rose then and looked at him, with a great effort to be calm.
“As God is my judge, I would give my life to serve you,” he protested passionately. “I repeat, I know not what you mean.”