‘Perhaps, after all,’ says she—she hesitates, and the hand on the rose-bush now trembles, though Wyndham never sees it—‘perhaps it wasn’t your cousin she meant. I misunderstood her, I dare say. It’—she looks at him with eager, searching young eyes—‘it was someone else, perhaps——’
‘Someone else?’
‘You are in love with.’ She draws back a little, almost leaning against the rose-bush now, and looking up at him from under frightened brows.
‘I am in love with no one,’ says Wyndham, with much directness—‘with no one in the wide world.’ He quite believes himself as he says this. But, in spite of this belief, a sensation of discontent pervades him, as, looking at the girl, he sees a smile, wide and happy, spreading over her charming face. Evidently it is nothing to her. She has had no desire that he should be in love with—her. ‘There is one thing,’ says he, a little austerely—that smile is still upon her face—‘if you really desire privacy, you should be careful about letting yourself be seen. Yesterday, in that tree,’ he points towards it, and Ella colours in a little sad, ashamed way that goes to his heart, but does not disturb his determination to read her a lecture, ‘you laid yourself open to discovery, and therefore to insult. The getting up into a tree or looking at people is nothing,’ argues he coldly. ‘It is the fact that, though you wish to look at people, you refuse to let them look at you, that makes the mischief. Anyone in this narrow society of ours who decides on withdrawing herself from the public gaze is open to misconception—to gossip—and finally to insult. I warned you of that long ago.’
‘I will not—I cannot. You know I cannot go out of this without great fear and danger,’ says Ella faintly.
‘I know nothing of the kind. This determination of yours to shut yourself away from the world is only a species of madness, and it will grow upon you. Supposing that man found you, what could he do?’
‘Oh, don’t, don’t!’ says she faintly. She covers her eyes with her hands. Then suddenly she takes them down and looks at him. ‘You have never felt fear,’ says she. She says this quickly, reproachfully, almost angrily; but through all the anger and reproach and haste there runs a thread of admiration. ‘But I have. And I tell you if—that man—were to see me again—were to come here and order me to go away with him—I should not dare to refuse.’
‘He knows better than to come here,’ says Wyndham curtly. ‘You may dispose of that fear.’
‘Ah!’ says she, sighing, ‘you don’t know him.’
‘I know—if not him individually—his class,’ says Wyndham confidently. ‘Give up, I counsel you, this secrecy of yours. See what it has brought upon you to-day. And these insults will continue. I warn you’—he looks at her with a frowning brow—‘I warn you they will continue.’