“I’m awfully glad you have come,” he said awkwardly, feeling that if he didn’t say something soon she would shortly go, “because I want to speak to you.”
“What about? Nothing disagreeable, I hope. Has Tabitha been making confidences to you? If so, please do not pass them on to me, for they obliterate the romance and discredit the holy state of matrimony.”
“Confound Tabitha,” said Rupert again, “and her confidences!” for he was quite bewildered, and uttered automatically the first words that came into his mind.
“Again I agree, but soon we shall involve all our relatives in one universal condemnation, so let us drop that topic.”
Then wearying of this fence, desiring to get the thing over, to have done with it, to see the doubtful bond signed, sealed, and delivered, suddenly Edith sat up in her chair and looked at him. The blue eyes opened wide, and there came into them a light which he had never seen before, a splendid, dazzling light as though some veil of darkness had been withdrawn, revealing a hid glory; as though at last she suffered him to behold her soul. The face changed also, upon it the mask of coldness broke as ice breaks suddenly beneath the blaze of the sun and the breath of the western wind, disclosing, or seeming to disclose, a river of pure love that ran beneath. For one moment he resisted her as sometimes a moth appears to resist the splendour of flame, not because he desired to fight against his fate, but rather to let the wonder and the mystery of this sudden change engrave themselves for ever on his heart. Then as the white lids sank extinguishing those fires, till the shadow of the long lashes lay upon her cheek, he spoke in a low and hurried voice:
“I am all unworthy,” he said, “I am not fit to touch your hand; but I cannot help it. I love you, and I dare to ask—oh, Edith, I dare to ask!—that you will give your life to me.”
She sat quite still, making no motion of acceptance or dissent. It was as though she wished to hear more ere she spoke. But he, too, was silent—frightened, perhaps, by her stillness—finding no other words in which to recast the truth that he had uttered once and for all. Again the white lids were lifted, and again the wide eyes looked at him, but this time with no syren glance, for they were troubled—almost tearful. Then whilst he wondered how he should read their message, Edith rose slowly, and with an infinite deliberation raised her hand and held it out towards him. At length he understood, and taking that delicate hand, he pressed his lips upon it, then, greatly daring, placed his arms about her, drew her to him, and kissed her on the brow and lips.
“My shoulder,” she murmured faintly; “it hurts,” and full of contrition he let her sink back into her chair.
“Do you love me? Say that you love me, Edith,” he whispered, bending over her.
“Have I not said?” she answered, glancing at her hand. “Do women—” and she ceased, and to Rupert this speech, and all that it conveyed, seemed the most beautiful avowal that ever passed the lips of pure and perfect maidenhood.