Lucy blushed brightly; though I cannot say the sincere, ingenuous girl ever looked embarrassed in avowing her preference for me. After a moment's pause, she smiled, and answered my question.
"I have not doubted of the result, since my father gave me an account of your feelings towards me," she said, "and that, you will remember, was before Mr. Daggett had his sale. Women have more confidence in the affections than men, I fear; at least, with us they are more engrossing concerns than with you--for we live for them altogether, whereas you have the world constantly to occupy your thoughts. I have never supposed Miles Wallingford would become the husband of any but Lucy Hardinge, except on one occasion, and then only for a very short period; and, ever since I have thought on such subjects at all, I have known that Lucy Hardinge would never--could never be the wife of any one but Miles Wallingford."
"And that one exception, dearest,--that 'very short period?' Having confessed so much, I am eager to know all."
Lucy became thoughtful, and she moved the grass at her feet with the end of her parasol, ere she replied.
"The one exception was Emily Merton; and the short period terminated when I saw you together, in your own house. When I first saw Emily Merton, I thought her more worthy of your love than I could possibly be; and I fancied it impossible that you could have lived so long in a ship together, without discovering each other's merits. But, when I was placed with you both, under the same roof, I soon ascertained that, while your imagination had been a little led aside, your heart was always true to me."
"Is this possible, Lucy! Are women really so much more discriminating, so much more accurate in their opinions, than us men? While I was ready to hang myself for jealousy of Andrew Drewett, did you really know that my heart was entirely yours?"
"I was not without misgivings, Miles, and sometimes those that were keenly painful; but, on the whole, I will not say I felt my power, but that I felt we were dear to each other."
"Did you never suppose, as your excellent father has done, that we were too much like brother and sister, to become lovers--too much accustomed to be dear to each other as children, to submit to passion? For that which I feel for you, Lucy, I do not pretend to dignify with the name of esteem, and respect, and affection--it is a passion, that will form the misery, or happiness of my life."
Lucy smiled archly, and again the end of her parasol played with the grass that grew around the rock on which we were seated.
"How could I think this for you," she said, "when I had a contrary experience of my own constantly present, Miles? I saw that you thought there was some difference of condition between us, (silly fellow!) and I felt persuaded you had only your own diffidence to overcome, to tell your own story."