“There can be but one distance between us, Marguerite—a distance of your making. My love, my darling, there is no higher rank in goodness, there is no higher rank in beauty, than yours! Come! whisper the one little word which tells me you will be my wife!”
She sighed bitterly. “Think of your family,” she murmured; “and think of mine!”
Vendale drew her a little nearer to him.
“If you dwell on such an obstacle as that,” he said, “I shall think but one thought—I shall think I have offended you.”
She started, and looked up. “O, no!” she exclaimed innocently. The instant the words passed her lips, she saw the construction that might be placed on them. Her confession had escaped her in spite of herself. A lovely flush of colour overspread her face. She made a momentary effort to disengage herself from her lover’s embrace. She looked up at him entreatingly. She tried to speak. The words died on her lips in the kiss that Vendale pressed on them. “Let me go, Mr. Vendale!” she said faintly.
“Call me George.”
She laid her head on his bosom. All her heart went out to him at last. “George!” she whispered.
“Say you love me!”
Her arms twined themselves gently round his neck. Her lips, timidly touching his cheek, murmured the delicious words—“I love you!”
In the moment of silence that followed, the sound of the opening and closing of the house-door came clear to them through the wintry stillness of the street.