“I am going to wait—to let you see that heretofore you have misjudged me. And now let me assure you that I am not going to presume upon the consent I have received.”
He waited, and she felt obliged to speak.
“Captain Vanleigh,” faltered Tiny, “it was at my father’s wish that I gave way, and consented to receive your visits. It is only fair to tell you that you are seeking to gain one who does not—who can never care for you.”
“My dear Valentina,” he said, smiling, “I am quite content. I know your sweet, gentle nature better than you know it yourself. And now for once, and once only, I am going to revert to an unpleasant theme, begging you first to forgive me for touching a wound that I know still throbs.”
“Captain Vanleigh!”
“It is odd, is it not,” he said, speaking with a mingling of profound tenderness and respect—“this talking of such things in a crowd? I only wished to say this once, that you do not know me. I am going to prove my love by patience. Valentina, dearest, you have been wasting the sweetness of your heart on an unworthy object.”
She tried to rise; but his hand rested on her arm, and detained her.
“I pain you; but I must tell you, sweet one, that he whom you cared for, no sooner left your side than he sought consolation with another, forsaking a love that is meet for the best on earth—a love of which I feel myself unworthy. Stay, not a syllable. Those were cruel words, but the words of truth. Now we understand one another, let us draw a veil over the past, never to refer to it again. You will know me better soon.”
As he spoke, there was a little bustle in the hall, where visitors were constantly arriving; and as Vanleigh stood gazing down in the pale, frightened face before him, watching the struggle that was going on, a plainly dressed woman brushed by the servant, who tried to stay her, and reached the stairs.
“Forgive me, Valentina,” whispered Vanleigh, bending over her. “I touched the wound but to try and heal it. My future life shall be all devotion; and in the happiness to come you will—”