“Your ride has done you good, Magda. You are looking charmingly,” he said, when at last she was undone and stood before the fire. He was obliged to go out again, and as it was not likely he should return till late, they were not to wait dinner for him,—he said.
Something in his manner toward her more than his words had affected Magdalen with a sweet sense of happiness, and her face was radiant as she met Frank in the hall, and went with him to the dining-room, where dinner was waiting for them. She explained that Roger would not be there, and then, as Frank took the head of the table, rallied him upon his awkwardness in carving and his absent-mindedness in general. He had a bad headache, he said, and after dinner was over and they had adjourned to the library, where their evenings were usually passed, he lay down upon the couch and looked so pale and tired, that Magdalen’s sympathy was awakened at once, and she insisted upon doing something for him. Since their return from New York she had been far more familiar in her intercourse with him than she would have been had she not believed there was something between him and Alice Grey which might ripen into love. With no fears for herself, she could afford to be very gracious, and being naturally something of a coquette, she had tormented and teased poor Frank until he had some reason for believing that his affection for her was returned, and that his suit would not be disregarded should he ever urge it upon her. With the remembrance of Roger’s words and manner thrilling every nerve, she was in an unusually soft, amiable mood to-night, and knelt at last by Frank’s side and offered to bathe his aching head.
“The girls at school used to tell me there was some mesmerism in my fingers,” she said, “some power to drive away pain or exorcise evil spirits. Let me try their effect on you.”
Mrs. Walter Scott, who had been watching the progress of matters, found it convenient just then to leave the room, and Frank was alone with Magdalen. For a few moments her white fingers threaded his hair, brushing it back from his forehead and passing lightly over his throbbing temples until it was not in human nature to endure any longer, and rising suddenly from his reclining position, Frank clasped his arms around her, and straining her to his bosom, pressed kiss after kiss upon her lips, while he poured into her astonished ear the story of his love, telling her how long ago it began,—telling her how dear she was to him,—how for her sake he had lingered at Millbank trying to do something for himself, because she had once suggested that such a thing would be gratifying to her,—how thoughts of her were constantly in his mind, whether awake or asleep, and lastly, that his mother approved his choice and would gladly welcome her as a daughter.
As he talked, Magdalen had struggled to her feet, her cheeks burning with surprise and mortification, and sorrow too, that Frank should have misjudged her so. She knew he was in earnest, and she pitied him so much, knowing as she did how hopeless was his suit.
“Speak to me,” he said at last, “if it is only to tell me no. Anything is better than your silence.”
“Oh, Frank,” Magdalen began, “I am so sorry, because—”
“Don’t tell me no. I will not listen to that answer,” Frank burst out impetuously, forgetting what he had just said when he begged her to speak. “You do like me, or you have seemed to, and have given me some encouragement, or I should not have told you what I have. Don’t you like me, Magdalen?”
“Yes, very much, but not the way you mean. I do not like you well enough to take you for my husband. And, Frank, what of Alice Grey? You say I have encouraged you, and perhaps I have. I’ll admit that since I thought you loved Miss Grey, I have been less guarded in my manner towards you; but I never meant to mislead you,—never. I felt towards you as a sister might feel towards a brother,—nothing more. But you do not tell me about Miss Grey. Are you, then, so fickle?”
“Magdalen,” Frank said, “I may as well be truthful with you now; that was all a ruse,—done for the sake of piquing you and rousing your jealousy. I did care for Alice when she was a young girl and I in college at New Haven, and when I met her again abroad, and found her the same sweet, lovely creature, I don’t know what I might have done but for her father, who seemed to dislike me, and always imposed some obstacle to my seeing her alone, until at last he took her away and I saw her no more, until I met her in New York; and had learned to love you far more than I ever loved Alice Grey.”