She hid her face in her hands, lest it should tell him too much, and he mistook the gesture and attitude for a confession of her guilt, and it moved him to a softer mood.
“I—I beg your pardon,” he stammered. “Don’t—for Heaven’s sake—don’t cry! That won’t do any good. I’m awfully sorry I should have blared out what I felt. It’s—it’s all past and gone now. Of course, you are married?”
Her lips formed the word “no,” though it was not audible.
“No!” he exclaimed, and the blood rushed to his face. “Not married! Then you are still Doris Marlowe, still Doris—the Doris I think and dream of——” He laid his hand on the wall and bent over her, trembling visibly. “Not married! Why—why—I don’t understand! I thought—that is—Doris——” a strange change in his voice smote upon her ears suddenly, a tone of wild, mad hope. “Doris, I thought you were utterly lost to me! That you were married! Why have you not married?”
She remained silent, and the color came and went on his face, and his eyes flashed.
“Why, Doris? You must answer me! Is it because—ah, no! you can’t have remembered—and yet——You are still Doris Marlowe! The dear, sweet Doris who won my heart in Barton meadows! Doris—you—you—drive me almost mad! The mere sight of you wipes out all the weary months since we parted! You are free still? Free? By Heaven, I can scarcely believe it!” He drew nearer, panting heavily, like a man who suddenly dares entertain the hope that dawns upon him. “Not married! Doris, do you remember? Let me look at your face! Why do you turn away from me? Are you playing with me still? If you are not married, there must be some reason! Great Heavens! don’t deceive, don’t betray me now! Listen! I, too, am free! I will be free! I’d give up all the world for your sake! Doris, listen to me! It may not be—it may not be too late!”
He was bending over her so closely now that she could feel his breath upon her cheek; an awful, a terrible languor was creeping over her; if he had caught her in his arms, and touched her lips with his, she could not have resisted. Love, the all-powerful god, was pleading with her for this, the only man she had ever loved, and she was conscious that she was yielding—yielding.
“Tell me, Doris; tell me again!” he exclaimed, passionately. “It may not be too late! You are not married; and I thought—they told me——My darling, my love, my Doris——”
His hand was upon her arm, his lips close to her face, his breath stirred her hair; she felt powerless to move; in another moment she would, by no consent of her own, have been in his arms, when, suddenly, she felt herself drawn from him, and a voice said, in calm, clear accents:
“Lord Cecil Neville, I believe?”