The suddenness of the question—the consciousness that she might vex Nathanael did she answer it—made her hesitate, blushing vividly—nay, painfully.
“No, don't tell me. I want to hear nothing, nothing, Agatha. I have before told you so. Do not be afraid.”
“How strange you are! What should I be afraid of?”
“Nothing. Forget I said anything. You are my wife now—mine—mine!” and for a moment he pressed her hand tightly. “In time”—he relinquished his hold with a sad smile—“in time, Agatha, I hope we shall become used to one another; perhaps even grow into a contented, sedate married couple.”
“Do you think so?” Alas! far more than this had been her thought—the thought which had dawned when she paused, shuddering over the tale of King Edward the Martyr and the woman that loved him—the dim hope, daily rising, of an Eden not altogether lost, even though she had married so rashly and blindly—a hope that this might have been only the burying of her foolish girlish dream of love, which must needs die in order to be raised up again in a different form and in a new existence.
Somewhat heavy-hearted, Agatha sat down on a raised bench that looked down on the battered and decaying billiard-table, listening to the rain that pattered on the glass roof above the vine-leaves—wondering how old were the ragged-looking, flowerless, fruitless orange-trees that were ranged on either side, the only other specimens of vegetation left. Evidently nobody at Kingcombe Holm cared much for flowers.
“I think we will quit this dull place. You do not seem to like it, Agatha?”
“Oh, yes, I like it well enough. I like the rain falling, falling, and the vine-branches crushing themselves against the panes. They'll never ripen, never—poor things! They are dying for sun, and it will not—will not shine!”
“Agatha, what do you mean?”
“I don't clearly know what I mean. Never mind. Talk to me about—whatever it was that you brought me to unfold. Be quick—I have not a large stock of patience, you know of old.”