“He loves me sincerely,” she said to herself. “He would marry me now, if I were a pauper. But would he have loved me from the first if I had been poor?”
It was not often that she put the question, even in this way, but as it belonged to that class of vicious inquiries which it is impossible to answer, it tormented her perpetually by suggesting a whole series of doubts, useless in themselves and mischievous in their consequences. She was convinced of two things. First, that she was unaccountably influenced by George’s presence to say and do things which she was determined at other times that she would never say or do; and, secondly, that whether she loved him truly or not she could not imagine herself as loving any one else nearly so much. Under these circumstances, it was clearly better that she should not see him for a considerable time. She would thus withdraw herself from the sphere of his direct influence, and she would have leisure to study and weigh her own feelings, with a view to reaching a final decision. Nevertheless she looked forward to the moment of parting from him with something that was very like pain. Contrary to her expectations, the interview passed off with little show of emotion on either side.
They talked for some time about the book, Constance assuming an air of mystery as regards its future and George speaking of it with the utmost indifference. At the last minute, when he had risen to go and was standing beside her, she laid her hand upon his arm.
“You do not think I am heartless, do you?” she asked, looking at a particular button on his coat.
“No,” George answered. “I think you are very sincere. I sometimes wish you would forget to be so sincere with yourself. I wish you would let yourself run away with yourself now and then.”
“That would be very wrong. It would be very unfair and unjust to you. Suppose—only suppose, you know—that I made up my mind to marry you, and then discovered when it was too late that I did not love you. Would not that be dreadful? Is it not better to wait a little longer?”
“You shall never say that I have pressed you into a decision against your will,” said George, betraying in one speech his youth, his ignorance of woman in general and his almost quixotic readiness to obey Constance in anything and everything.
“You are very generous,” she answered, still looking at the button. “But I will not feel that I am spoiling your life—no, let me speak—to keep you in this position much longer would be doing that, indeed it would. In six months from now you will be famous. I know it, though you laugh at me. Then you will be able to marry whom you please. I cannot marry you now, for I do not love you enough. You are free, you must not feel that I want to bind you, do you understand. You will travel this summer, for you have told me that you are going to make several visits in country-houses. If you see any one you like better than me, do not feel that you are tied by any promises. It would not break my heart, if you married some one else.”
In spite of her calmness there was a slight tremor in her voice which did not escape George’s ear.
“I shall never love any one else,” he said simply.