Thomas Godolphin said a word of apology to Lord Averil, and left the room. In the hall he met Cecil crossing to it. She went in, quite unconscious who was its inmate. He rose up to welcome her.
A momentary hesitation in her steps: a doubt whether she should not run away again, and then she recalled her senses and went forward.
She recalled what he had done that day for her brother; she went forward to thank him. But ere the thanks had well begun, they came to an end, for Cecil had burst into tears.
How it went on, and what was exactly said or done, neither of them could remember afterwards. A very few minutes, and Cecil’s head was resting upon his shoulder, all the mistakes of the past cleared up between them.
She might not have confessed to him how long she had loved him—ever since that long past time when they were together at Mrs. Averil’s—but for her dread lest he should fear that she was only accepting him now out of gratitude—gratitude for his noble behaviour to her erring brother. And so she told him the truth: that she had loved him, and only him, all through.
“Cecil, my darling, what long misery might have been spared me had I known this!”
Cecil looked down. Perhaps some might also have been spared to her. “It is not right that you should marry me now,” she said.
“Why?”
“On account of this dreadful disgrace. George must have forgotten how it would fall upon——”
“Hush, Cecil! The disgrace, as I look upon it—as I believe all just people must look upon it—is confined to himself. It is indeed. Not an iota of the respect due to Thomas by the world, of the consideration due to the Miss Godolphins, will be lessened. Rely upon it I am right.”