“No, sir. If the Archbishop of Canterbury were here himself, it could not make it other than a sin, and an act of mean ingratitude, for me, the Prince’s rocker, to take advantage of their goodness in permitting you to come and bring me home—to do what would be pain, grief, and shame to them.”
“Never shame.”
“What is wrong is shame! Cannot you see how unworthy it would be in me, and how it would grieve my uncle that I should have done such a thing?”
“Love would override scruples.”
“Not true love.”
“True! Then you own to some love for me, Anne.”
“I do—not—know. I have guarded—I mean—cast away—I mean—never entertained any such thought ever since I was old enough to know how wicked it would be.”
“Anne! Anne!” (in an undertone very like rapture), “you have confessed all! It is no sin now. Even you cannot say so.”
She hung her head and did not answer, but silence was enough for him.
“It is enough!” he said; “you will wait. I shall know you are waiting till I return in such sort that nothing can be denied me. Let me at least have that promise.”