“It has been a trouble to me. I revolve night and day how to regain my lost ground and once more be acceptable to the only woman whose liking or distaste can make my heart to beat faster.”
Her soft and pensive silence was an invitation to continue. Gentleness itself was the charming face now looking downward as though unable to meet the fire of his eyes. Sure my Lord knew all the symptoms of surrender!
“If I confess”—he said gallantly, “that I was turned from the course of true love a moment—a moment only—by a wayside flower, my Lady Fanny, who knows the world and the thoughts of men she rules, will not think the crime unpardonable, since ’twas a fancy that never for a moment touched the heart where she only is secure.”
He laid his hand on hers—it was not withdrawn,—and continued:
“ ’Twas not inconstancy indeed—I durst swear it. ’Twas trifling of the lightest, yet had its use, for it taught me that I was but a captive sporting at the end of my chain. Your fair hand holds it, and your heart is my prison. Never will I seek for freedom. Can the loveliest of charmers, the most desirable of women make me a return?”
She did not look up. In a voice sweet as honey, she whispered:
“Indeed I have waited for this moment, my Lord.”
He had her hand now in a firmer clasp. They were as solitary as in a wood though the company passed their bower, as they came and went.
“Then may I believe that this dear hand is mine? That my beloved will give me the day and make me the happiest of men?”
“You would have me marry you?” says she, raising her eyes to his. Even then her tone might have warned him, but he rushed on his fate.