“Oh no, you have no need to do so,” she cried almost eagerly, and he perceived that she had a conscientious fear of his assuming that she had disregarded many eligible suitors in favour of himself. “Oh no, indeed! I do not believe that there was any offer made to me that caused me a great pang to decline. Of course I was sorry—yes, once or twice, when I really felt that they truly loved me; but—— Oh, why should I have accepted any of them when to do so would only mean adding to my fetters?”
“Ah, why indeed? A husband is sometimes a harder taskmaster than a father. Even with your small experience of life, you must have perceived this. Well, so much for the men who professed to love you; but you must know that when we have talked about them we have dealt with one class only; we have not yet touched upon those whom you loved.”
Her face had become roseate, and it wore a troubled expression. He laughed, and she saw that the expression on his face was that of a man who is amused. Her quick ear had told her that there was no note of jealousy in his laugh.
“Pray forgive me, my dear,” he said. “Be assured that I have no intention of extorting any confession from you. Believe me, my child, I am glad of the evidence which you have given me—that sweet confusion—that sweeter blush—of your having the heart of a girl. ’Tis as natural for a girl to love as it is for her to laugh. If you had assured me that you had never loved, I feel that I should not love you as I do at this moment—as I have loved you from the first moment that I looked upon your dear face.”
“Ah, sir, I pray to God that I may one day love you as you should be loved!” she cried, and he saw that tears were in her eyes.
“As I should be loved—I ask nothing more,” he said. “That is what has always been in my mind with regard to you. Have you marvelled that I have not yet asked you to love me? I refrained, because I had told you that my sole hope in regard to yourself was to make you happy; and I knew that I should be making you unhappy if I were to impose upon you the duty of loving me. Such curious creatures we are, that when love exists only as a duty it ceases to be love. I pray to Heaven, Betsy, that you may never come to think that it is your duty to love any one—even a husband.”
“Ah, you are too good to me—too considerate!” she cried. “Every time that you speak to me as you have just spoken, you overwhelm me with remorse.”
“With remorse? Does that mean that you love some one else?”
“It means that I do not love you as I should—as you expect to be loved—as you have a right to expect that I should.”