He sighed.
“Perhaps you have acted wisely—yes, I must acknowledge that you are right. And yet I hoped you would have been contented to remain with us.”
Florence did not reply, and the conversation was not resumed until they were within sight of the house. Then, as he held her for a moment in his arms while lifting her over an awkward stile, he said tenderly:
“Florence, if you have any perception of what is passing in my heart, you must know how keenly I shall feel your loss—how sharp a pang it inflicts to know that I cannot say: ‘Stay with me forever—be the dear companion of my life!’”
Trembling from head to foot, she turned from him, and leaned against the stile, too much agitated to sustain herself.
He saw this, and began to reproach himself as the cause.
“I am an unmanly, selfish wretch! I cannot justify my conduct—nothing can excuse it! Yet forgive me, Miss Heriton—pray forgive me!”
Instead of answering, she began to hurry on. What could she say that would not in some measure betray the bitter pain she suffered whenever he made these mysterious allusions?
But he followed her closely.
“Miss Heriton, you are greatly fatigued—pray take my arm, and I promise on my honor not to offend you again. You will not? Florence, had I felt less deeply, I could have better borne the disappointment of my best hopes.”