‘No, no! don’t ask me! I cannot look at you. I can never look at you again. Oh, leave me! Mr. Wellfield–Jerome! for the love of heaven leave me, or I shall die–I shall die of shame!’
‘You shall not die of shame,’ he said, in the same low, persuasive voice. ‘Nita, you shall look at me, my good angel, and hear what I have to say to you.’
With gentle but irresistible force he drew her hands away, and lifted her head, and made her look at him, and in that moment he had, perhaps, forgotten the existence of Sara Ford.
‘Why do you speak of shame, Nita?’ he asked, looking tenderly into her piteous face. ‘What shame can there possibly be in giving way to such a generous impulse, and in showing a lonely, fallen man that there is one sweet woman left who cares for him, and would make him happy if she might? Heaven bless you, dear, for such goodness. But you know–you must know, why I cannot take you in my arms and say, “I accept that goodness, and offer you my life’s devotion in return for it.” You know it would be the basest conduct on my part towards your father, who has treated me with unheard-of goodness. I know he wishes you to marry, and I know he would consider it the height of presumption in me to ask for you.’
‘Oh, don’t speak of such things–of marriage and such horrors!’ she almost moaned, struggling to free her hands; but he went on:
‘No, I must face my future as best I may, and it will be with the better cheer from the knowledge that goodness such as yours exists–goodness which I worship and honour all the more in that you have made it known to me.’
‘Oh, don’t! don’t speak of it! I cannot bear it!’ she cried, wrenching her hands away, and again covering her face from his sight. She felt as if she were in some strange, delirious dream. Wellfield’s looks and tones thrilled through every nerve. Did he love her? Did he mean that if he dared, he would tell her so? She knew not what to think. She only knew that he knew, and that say or do what she might, she could never undo the fact that she had betrayed herself; and that the one thing which would have made it all right–would have made the difference between a nightmare and a vision of Paradise–the knowledge that he loved her–was wanting. Yes, despite his caressing tones, his eloquent eyes, his tender words, she did not understand that he loved her.
‘Do not be so distressed,’ he said. ‘I will never speak of it again, if you desire me to be silent. I will forget it–anything–only, dear, do not be so unhappy!’
‘I hear them coming,’ said Nita, her ear preternaturally quick. ‘I hear their voices. I cannot see them–they must not see me. Tell them–tell them I am ill–for I am–and–let me go!’
‘Yes–stop one moment, Nita!’ he answered, clasping his arm round her waist, as she was darting past him.