How could he ever have been so foolish as to take it for granted that such a girl as this was free? That was the first thought which came to him. Had he not heard how every youth for miles round was in love with Nelly Polwhele? Had he not seen how one man had almost lost his senses through love of her?
And yet he had been considering the question of asking her to marry him, assuming from the very first that she must be free! He had been considering the matter from his own standpoint, asking himself if it would not be well to be assured of his own love for her before telling her that he loved her; and he came to the conclusion that he should not use any undue haste in saying the words which, he hoped, would link their lives together. He had never entertained a suspicion that he might be too late in making his appeal to her. It was now a shock to him to learn, as he had just done, that he was too late.
It took him some time to recover himself.
“I ask your pardon,” he said. “I pray you to tell to me again what you have just said.”
“I am well-nigh ashamed to say it, sir,” she murmured. “I am afraid that you may not think well of me. You may think that there is some truth in the reports that have gone abroad concerning me.”
“Reports? I have heard no reports. I thought of you as I found you, and all that I thought was good. I think nothing of you now that is not good. Ah, child, you do not know what direction my thoughts of you have taken! Alas! alas!”
It was her turn to be startled. He saw the effect that his words had produced upon her, and he hastened to modify it. He felt that he had no right to say a word that might even in a distant way suggest to her the direction in which his thoughts—his hopes—had so recently led him.
“Have I spoken too vaguely?” he said. “Surely not. But I will be explicit, and assure you that from the day we walked through the valley side by side I have thought of you as a good daughter—an honest and innocent young woman, thoughtful for the well-being of others.”
“Oh, sir, your good opinion is everything to me!” she cried. “But I feel that I have not earned it truly. Vanity has ever been my besetting sin—vanity and fickleness. That is what I have to confess to you now before asking you for your counsel.”
“God forbid that I should give you any counsel except that which I am assured must be for your own well-being. Tell me all that is weighing on your heart, and, God helping me, I will try to help you.”