“Brother,” she said, solemnly, “this must not be. It is not what God commands—it is not what I expected from you—what I have a right to expect from one whom I am assured loves me, though none other of earth can be said to do so.”
“It is not easy, my sister, for a man to forget or forgive the wretch who has so long misled you—misled us all, and then turned to another, under the impulse of mere vanity.”
“Miles, my kind and manly brother, listen to me,” Grace rejoined, fervently pressing one of my hands in both of hers, and scarcely able to command herself, through alarm. “All thoughts of anger, of resentment, of pride even, must be forgotten. You owe it to my sex, to the dreadful imputations that might otherwise rest on my name—had I anything to reproach myself with as a woman. I could submit to any punishment; but surely, surely, it is not a sin so unpardonable to be unable to command the affections, that I deserve to have my name, after I shall be dead, mixed up with rumours connected with such a quarrel. You have lived as brothers, too—then there is good, excellent, truthful, pious Mr. Hardinge; who is yet my guardian, you know; and Lucy, dear, true-hearted, faithful Lucy—”
“Why is not dear, true-hearted, faithful Lucy, here, watching over you, Grace, at this very moment?” I demanded, huskily.
“She knows nothing of my situation—it is a secret, as well as its cause, from all but God, myself, and you. Ah! I knew it would be impossible to deceive your love, Miles! which has ever been to me, all that a sister could desire.”
“And Lucy! how has her affection been deceived?—Has she too, eyes only for those she has recently learned to admire?”
“You do her injustice, brother. Lucy has not seen me, since the great change that I can myself see has come over me. Another time, I will tell you all. At present I can only say, that as soon as I had certain explanations with Rupert, I left town, and have studiously concealed from dear Lucy the state of my declining health. I write to her weekly, and get answers; everything passing between us as cheerfully, and apparently, as happily as ever. No, do not blame Lucy; who, I am certain, would quit everything and everybody to come to me, had she the smallest notion of the truth. On the contrary, I believe she thinks I would rather not have her at Clawbonny, just at this moment, much as she knows I love her; for, one of Lucy's observation and opportunities cannot but suspect the truth. Let me lie on your breast, brother; it wearies me to talk so much.”
I sat holding this beloved sister in my arms, fully an hour, neither of us speaking. I was afraid of injuring her, by further excitement, and she was glad to take refuge in silence, from the feelings of maiden shame that could not be otherwise than mingled with such a dialogue. As my cheek leaned on her silken hair, I could see large tears rolling down the pallid cheeks; but the occasional pressure of the hands, told me how much she was gladdened by my presence. After some ten or fifteen minutes, the exhausted girl dropped into feverish and disturbed slumbers, that I would have remained motionless throughout the night to maintain. I am persuaded it was quite an hour before this scene terminated. Grace then arose, and said, with one of her most angelic smiles—
“You see how it is with me, Miles—feeble as an infant, and almost as troublesome. You must bear with me, for you will be my nurse. One promise I must have, dearest, before we leave this room.”
“It is yours, my sister, let it be what it may; I can now refuse you nothing,” said I, melted to feminine tenderness. “And yet, Grace, since you exact a promise, I have a mind to attach a condition.”