“Will you come into the garden with me for a few minutes, Lucy? I have something of the utmost importance to say to you, something which will brook no delay, for my regiment is ordered off to the West Indies, and I may not have another opportunity to see you.”
Lucy knew as well as possible what the “something” was which her cousin so anxiously desired to say to her; she was convinced that it was nothing less than a proposal of marriage; and her first impulse was to excuse herself. But that, she decided, would hardly be kind on the eve of his departure for foreign service; moreover, it might leave him in possession of a feeling that there was some hope for him, or possibly, after the many love-speeches he had made her, he might feel himself in some sort bound not to marry any one else until he had had a distinct refusal from her, and that must certainly be avoided; so she decided that she would grant him the desired interview, give him his dismissal as speedily and withal as kindly as possible, and get him out of the house without delay—it was still early in the evening, and who knew but that she might succeed in getting rid of her unwelcome suitor before the welcome one put in an appearance?
So, laying aside her pen, she motioned him to follow her into the large garden at the back of the house, where they would be perfectly secure from observation, and herself led the way.
She conducted her cousin to a little summer-house at the lower end of the garden, and, motioning him to a seat said—
“Now, Cousin Edward, what is this important communication which you have to make? Be as brief as possible, if you please, for I really cannot spare you much time.”
“I will,” he said. Then, pausing for a moment, and making an unsuccessful attempt to gain possession of her hand, he remarked—
“I think you must have already guessed what it is that I have to say to you, Lucy. You cannot be ignorant of the feeling with which I regard you; you must have discovered long ago that I love you, Lucy, deeply, passionately, tenderly, as a man loves only once in his lifetime. We have not known each other very long, it is true,” he continued after a slight pause, during which he had vainly looked into her downcast face for some sign of encouragement, “but the time has been long enough for me to learn that all my hopes of future happiness depend on you; and I think it has also been long enough to enable you to judge whether you can entrust your happiness to me or not. I know I am by no means what I ought to be,”—here he made another pause, hoping for some word or sign of disclaimer, which, however, never came—“but I hope you will not judge me too harshly. I am an orphan, remember. Robbed at an early age of a mother’s tender care and gentle training, I have been left pretty much to the mercy of strangers, who allowed me to grow up to manhood without an effort to check the development of those evil propensities which we all alike inherit from our first parents; and then, too, I have had the misfortune to be thrown—against my will, I honestly assure you—into evil companionship. But, in spite of all these disadvantages, I flatter myself that I am by no means a bad sort of fellow; and if you will only take me in hand, Lucy, I feel sure you could make a reformed character of me. And then, too, consider the society into which I could introduce you. Wearing his Majesty’s uniform, as I do, I could—”
“Pray say no more, Edward, I beg,” interrupted Lucy. “I am grieved to be obliged to disappoint you—though I do not think the disappointment will be very great—but what you ask is quite impossible. In the first place I must frankly say that I do not love you; and in the second I must with equal frankness say that, though I might love ever so much, I would never marry a man who needed that I should ‘take him in hand’ to make a reformed character of him. You are my cousin, and, as such, I shall always regard you with friendly interest; but I shall never be able to entertain for you any warmer feeling.”
Walford, pale to the lips with surprise and chagrin, looked incredulously in the face of the fair girl by whose side he was seated. He was completely staggered. The idea of his being indifferent to his cousin had never for a single instant occurred to him. He had won for himself the reputation of being quite a “lady-killer;” and now this little country-bred girl had the impertinence to tell him coolly that she did not love him; nay, more—to hint pretty strongly that she regarded him with feelings not very far removed from contempt, because, forsooth, he had lived a somewhat fast life. Why, many of the girls he had met had positively admired him for his rakishness—he did not pause to consider what manner of girls these were, though, by the bye. It was monstrous, it was positively insulting. Then, in addition to the severe wound to his amour-propre, there was the disappointment of his hopes of pecuniary aggrandisement; Lucy’s fortune, modest though it was, would have been of the utmost service to him. It was true, he knew, that she would not have a penny of her own until her mother died, but that, he was firmly convinced, would not be a very long-postponed event; the “old fool”—as he called Mrs Walford in his heart—would doubtless be in her grave long enough before he returned from foreign service—and, at all events, he was willing to risk that. But then Lucy had said she would not have him. Surely she could not mean it; she was only saying it to try him, or—stay—was it possible that she loved that sailor-fellow Leicester? He would find out.
“Are you quite sure, Lucy, that you will never be able to love me?” he asked, infusing a very successful affectation of passionate entreaty into the tones of his voice. “Perhaps I have spoken too quickly; I have taken you by surprise, I have allowed my impatience to outrun my judgment; perhaps if I had waited a little longer—”