“You do not positively hate me?” he asked.
She gave him one fleeting glance through her long lashes, and a faint smile rested on her mouth.
“How could I?” she murmured—“you are my friend.”
“Well, will you try to like me a little more than a friend?”—he continued eagerly—“Will you say to yourself now and then—‘He is a big, bluff, clumsy Englishman, with more faults than virtues, more money than brains, and a stupid title sticking upon him like a bow of ribbon on a boar’s head, but he is very fond of me, and would give up everything in the world for me’—will you say that to yourself, and think as well as you can of me?—will you, Irene?”
She raised her head. All coldness and hauteur had left her face, and her eyes were very soft and tender.
“My dear friend, I cannot hear you do yourself wrong”—she said—“and I am not as unjust as you perhaps imagine. I know your worth. You have more virtues than faults, more brains than money,—you are generous and kindly, and in this instance, your title sets off the grace of a true and gallant gentleman. Give me time to consider a little,—let us join the Vaughans,—I promise you I will give you your answer to-day.”
A light flashed over his features, and stooping, he once more kissed her hand. Then, as she moved on, a gracefully gliding figure under the dark arching boughs, he followed with a firm joyous step such as might have befitted a knight of the court of King Arthur who had, after hard fighting, at last won some distinct pledge of his “ladye’s” future favour.
XLIII.
Deeply embowered among arching boughs and covered with the luxuriant foliage of many a climbing and flowering vine, the little monastic refuge appeared at first sight more like the retreat of a poet or painter than a religious house where holy ascetics fasted and prayed and followed the difficult discipline of daily self-denial. When the little party of visitors reached its quaint low door they all paused before ringing the bell that hung visibly aloft among clustering clematis, and looked about them in admiration.
“What a delicious place!” said Lady Vaughan, bending to scent the odours of a rich musk rose that had pushed its lovely head through the leaves as though inviting attention—“How peaceful! ... and listen! What grand music they are singing!”