“I am distressed for you,” Marian at last found voice to say. “Oh, Mr. Gordon, I should be most wretched if I thought I had encouraged you in this! But I have not, I am sure. I like you very, very much, but I cannot be your wife!”
“Marian, are you in earnest?” And on Will Gordon’s manly face was a look never seen there before.
He did not know until now how much he loved the beautiful young girl he held so closely to his side. All the affections of his heart had centered themselves, as it were, upon her, and he could not give her up. She had been so kind to him—had welcomed him ever with her sweetest smile—had seemed sorry at his departure—and was not this encouragement? He had taken it as such, and ere she could reply to the question: “Are you in earnest?” he added:
“I have thought, from your manner, that I was not indifferent to you, else I had never told you of my love. Oh, Marian, if you desert me now, I shall wish that I could die!”
Marian struggled until she released herself from his embrace, and, standing before him, she replied:
“I never dreamed that you thought of me, save as a friend, and if I have encouraged you, it was because—you reminded me of another. Oh, Mr. Gordon, must I tell you that long before I came here, I had learned to love some other man—hopelessly, it is true, for he does not care for me; but that can make no difference. Had I never seen him—never known of him—I might—I would have been your wife, for I know that you are noble and good; but ’tis too late—too late!”
He did not need to ask her now if she were in earnest; for, looking up into her truthful, clear blue eyes, he knew there was no hope for him, and bowing his head upon the arm of the sofa, he groaned aloud, while the heaving of his chest showed how much he suffered, and how manfully he strove to keep his feelings down. Mournfully Marian gazed upon him, wishing she had never come there, if by coming she had brought this hour of anguish to him. Half timidly she laid her hand upon his head, for she wished to comfort him; and, as he felt the touch of her fingers, he started, while an expression of joy lighted up his face, only to pass away again as he saw the same unloving look in her eye.
“If I could comfort you,” she said, “I would gladly do it; but I cannot. You will forget me in time, Mr. Gordon, and be as happy as you were before you knew me.”
He shook his head despairingly. “No one could forget you; and the man who stands between us must be a monster not to requite your love. Who is he, Marian? or is it not for me to know?”
“I would rather you should not—it can do no good,” was Marian’s reply; and then Will Gordon pleaded with her to think again ere she told him so decidedly no. She might outlive that other love. She ought to, certainly, if ’twere a hopeless one; and if she only gave him half a heart, he would be content until he won the whole. They would go to Europe in Autumn; and beneath the sunny skies of Italy she would learn to love him, he knew. “Won’t you, Marian?” and in the tone of his voice there was a word of eager, fearful, yearning love.