"Am I not bewitched?" he said, holding out his hands appealingly; "isn't a man bewitched when he can only think of one thing, day and night, and can get no rest or sleep from thinking of it? And that is how it is with me. I can think of nothing but you."
Margaret made a motion to get up, but he laid his hand on the edge of her skirt imploringly.
"That is how it is with me," he went on. "I tell you the simple truth. I—I have never felt like it before. None of the women I ever met made me feel like this! What is it you have done to me to steal the heart out of my body? for I feel that it is gone—gone!" and he touched his breast with his finger.
Margaret tried to smile, but there is a tragedy in real passion which, however wild the language, forbids laughter, and Lord Leyton's passion was real.
"I see your face all day, I hear your voice. I go over every word you said to me—and some of them were hard words!—and—and to-day I felt that I must get near to you, that I must come down to Leyton if I died for it. Do you believe what I say?"
"I know that I should not listen to you, my lord," she said, in a low voice.
"Why not?" he said. "It is true. Miss Margaret, you have stolen my heart; what is there left to me? I have come because I must, and now I am here I am no better, for I feel that I must tell you more, all that there is to tell, even if you send me away. But don't do that if you can help it, for Heaven's sake don't do that!" and she saw that his lips were quivering. "Margaret, you know what I would say," he went on, in the low, thrilling tones of a young and strong man's passion. "I love you!"
Margaret did not start, but a red flush rose and covered her face, then left it pale even to whiteness, and she sat as if turned to stone.
"I love you! Dear, I love you!" he murmured. "Do you—will you not believe me?"
She opened her lips, but he put up his hand.