“No; not she,” said Roland, blushing and confused, “a spotted barb, fully as handsome—some say handsomer. Will you do me the favor to ride her to-morrow, and, if she be fortunate enough to please you, to accept her?”
Olivia hung down her head for a second, and a deep scarlet covered her cheek, and rose even to her temples, and it was with a voice broken and interrupted she said, “Oh, I cannot—I must not.” Then, turning on him a look, where the tearful eyes, swimming in a softened lustre, conveyed a whole story of deep suffering, she said rapidly, “You are too kind and too good ever to give pain; you are too generous to believe others capable of it; but were I to accept your beautiful gift—were I even to ride out with you alone—there is nothing that would not be said of me.”
It was Cashel's turn for a slight blush now; and, to do him justice, he felt the sensation a most disagreeable one. It had not indeed occurred to him to make the proposal as the young lady took it, but he was far too long schooled in gallantry to undeceive her, and so he said, “I really cannot see this in the light you do. It is a very natural wish on my part, that I should show my guests whatever my poor grounds afford of the picturesque; and remember, we are not friends of yesterday.” This he said in his very kindest tone.
“I do remember it,” said she, with a slow but most meaning sigh.
“That memory is, I trust, not so associated with sorrow,” added he, leaning down, and speaking in a deep, earnest voice, “that you recall it with a sigh?”
“Oh, no; but I was thinking—I must not say of what I was thinking.”
“Nay, but you must,” said he, gently, and drawing his chair closer.
“I dare not—I cannot—besides, you “—and there was on the pronoun the very softest of all-dwelling intonation—“you might be angry—might never forgive me.”
“Now I must insist on your telling me,” said Roland, passionately, “if but to show how unfairly you judge me.”
“Well,” said she, drawing a long breath—“but shall I trust you?”