“I have something to say to you,” he repeated; but the look of her mild blue eyes steadfastly directed toward him made what he had to say a great deal more difficult to St. Clair. A chill doubt penetrated into his mind; he hesitated. The least little uncertainty on her part, a blush, a shade of trouble, would have made everything easier to him; but Lucy was not excited. She “did seriously incline” to hear whatever he might have to say, but her eyes did not even veil their mild light, nor her cheek own the shadow of a flush. To discharge a declaration of love point-blank at a young woman who is gazing at you in perfect composure and ease, without a shade of expectation in her countenance, is no easy matter. Besides, the fact of her composure was, of all things in the world, the most discouraging to her suitor; and it was what he had not anticipated. It came upon him as a revelation of the most chilling and discouraging kind. “Now that the moment has come,” said. St. Clair, “all the unkind judgments I may be exposing myself to seem to rise up before me. I never thought of them till now. The sincerity of my feelings was my defense. Now I feel overwhelmed by them. Miss Trevor— Lucy! I feel now that I have been a fool. What I wanted to say is what I ought not to say.”
He covered his face with his hands, and turned away from her. Lucy was much concerned. This little pantomime, which, however, was the sincerest part of all St. Clair’s proceedings, took away her indifference at once. Her composed countenance was disturbed, a little color came to her face.
“Oh, tell me what it is,” she cried.
When he looked at her, there was an air almost of entreaty on Lucy’s face. She repeated her petition, “Tell me what it is,” looking anxiously up to him. His heart beat very loudly. To
“ ... put it to the touch
To gain or lose it all.”
is not so easily done in reality as in verse. He drew a long, almost sobbing, breath. He dropped down suddenly on one knee, close to her. This was not any expedient of humility or devotion, but merely to bring himself on a level with her, and as such Lucy understood it, though she was surprised.
“Lucy!” he said (and this startled her still more), “Lucy! don’t you know what it is? can not you guess? haven’t you seen it already in every look of my face, in every tone of my voice? Ah, yes, I am sure you know it. I am not a good dissembler, and what else could have kept me here? Lucy! I am not good enough for you, but such as I am, will you have me?” he cried.
“Have you, Mr. St. Clair!” Lucy stammered out in consternation. She understood him vaguely, and yet she did not understand him. Have him! not give to him, but take from him. He had put it skillfully, without, however, being aware that he was doing so, excitement taking the place of calculation, as it often does. He held out his hands for hers, he looked at her with eyes full of entreaty, beseeching, imploring. There was nothing fictitious in their eloquence. He meant as sincerely as ever lover meant, and the yes or no was to him, as in the case of the most impassioned wooer, like life or death.
“Yes,” he said, “have me! I am not much of a man, but with you I should be another creature. You would give me what I have always wanted, an inspiration, a motive. Since the first time I saw you, my happiness has been in your hands; for what else do you think I have been staying here? I have not done all I might have done, but, Lucy, if love had not held me, do you think I am good for nothing but to be tutor to a child? I have served for love, like Jacob, for you.”
Lucy gave a low cry at this. She put her hands, not into his, but together, wringing them with sudden pain.