“I took his hand, and, hesitating, was again my better self; but I would not go back, nor could I begin with any preface.—Thank Heaven that was impossible. I began:—
“‘Davenant, I am come to ask you a favour, and you must do it for me.’
“‘I hope it is in my power, my dear,’ said he; ‘I am sure you would not ask—’ and there he stopped.
“I told him it was in his power, and that I would not ask it for any creature living, but—’ He put his hand upon my lips, told me he knew what I was going to say, and begged me not to say it; but I, hoping to carry it off playfully, kissed his hand, and putting it aside said, ‘I must ask, and you must grant this to my mother.’ He replied, ‘It cannot be, Anne, consistently with public justice, and with my public duty. I—’
“‘Nonsense, nonsense,’ I said, ‘such words are only to mask a refusal.’ Mask, I remember, was the word that hurt him. Of all I could have used, it was the worst: I knew it the instant I had said it. Lord Davenant stepped back, and with such a look! You, Helen, who have seen only his benign countenance, his smiling eyes, cannot conceive it. I am sure he must have seen how much it alarmed me, for suddenly it changed, and I saw all the melting softness of love.
“Oh fool! vain wicked fool that I was! I thought of ‘victory,’ and pursued it. My utmost power of persuasion—words—smiles—and tears I tried—and tried in vain; and then I could not bear to feel that I had in vain made this trial of power and love. Shame and pride and anger seized me by turns, and raised such a storm within me—such confusion—that I knew not what I did or said. And he was so calm! looked so at least, though I am sure he was not. His self-possession piqued and provoked me past all bearing. I cannot tell you exactly how it was—it was so dreadfully interesting to me that I am unable to recall the exact words; but I remember at last hearing him say, in a voice I had never before heard, ‘Lady Davenant!’—He had never called me so before; he had always called me ‘Anne:’ it seemed as if he had dismissed me from his heart.
“‘Call me Anne! O call me Anne!’
“And he yielded instantly, he called me Anne, and caressing me, ‘his Anne.’ ‘O Helen! never do as I did.’ I whispered, ‘Then, my love, you will do this for me—for me, your own Anne?’
“He put me gently away, and leaned against the chimney-piece in silence. Then turning to me, in a low suppressed voice, he said,—
“‘I have loved you—love you as much as man can love woman, there is nothing I would not sacrifice for you except—’