“I! For what reason?”
“Because it is yours!” answered he, no longer able to withhold the truth. “Yours! Yes; the Zoë of my romance is but the portrait of a beautiful child, first seen upon a Cunard steamer. Since grown to be a girl still more attractively beautiful. And since thought of by him who saw her, till the thought became a passion that must seek expression in words. It sought; and has found it. Zoë is the result—the portrait of Blanche Vernon, painted by one who loves, who would be willing to die for her!”
At this impassioned speech, the baronet’s daughter trembled. But not as in fear. On the contrary, it was joy that was stirring within her heart.
And this heart was too young, and too guileless, either to conceal or be ashamed of its emotions. There was no show of concealment in the quick, ardent interrogatories that followed.
“Captain Maynard, is this true? Or have you spoken but to flatter me?”
“True!” replied he, in the same impassioned tone. “It is true! From the hour when I first saw you, you have never been out of my mind. You never will. It may be folly—madness—but I can never cease thinking of you.”
“Nor I of you?”
“Oh, heavens! am this be so? Is my presentiment to be fulfilled? Blanche Vernon! do you love me?”
“A strange question to put to a child!”
The remark was made by one, who had hitherto had no share in the conversation. Maynard’s blood ran cold, as, under the shadow of the deodara, he recognised the tall figure of Sir George Vernon!