“Oh,” she said, “why did not you tell me before? Oh, Mr. St. Clair, why did I not know?”
“Do you think I grudge it?” he said, “not if it had been as long as Jacob’s. Do you think I regret having done this for you? not if it had been a life-time; but Lucy, you are too good to keep me in suspense, you will give me my reward at the end?”
And this time he took her clasped hands into his, drawing her to him. Lucy’s courage had failed for a moment. Confusion and trouble and distress had taken away all the strength from her. There was a mist over her eyes, and her voice seemed to die away in her throat; but at his touch her girlish shyness came to her aid. A flush of shrinking and shame came over her. She drew away from him with an instinctive recoil.
“Mr. St. Clair, I don’t know what you want from me. I am very grateful to you about Jock. I thought it was a great favor; but I did not know—oh, I am very sorry, very sorry that you should have done anything that was not good enough for me.”
“I am not sorry,” he said; his heart began to sink, but he looked more lover-like, more eager than ever. “You do not know how sweet it is to serve those one loves. Do you remember what Browning says about Dante’s angel and Raphael’s sonnet?” He was a man of culture himself, and he did not reflect that Dante, and Raphael, and Browning were all alike out of Lucy’s way, who stared at him with growing horror, as he pleaded, feeling that he must be citing spectators of his sacrifices for her, who would blame her, and say she used him badly. “This is my sonnet and my picture,” he added; “‘Once, and only once, and for one only.’ Lucy! believe me, I should never have said anything about it, save to prove my dear love.”
Blanched with pain and terror, her mild eyes opened widely, her breath coming quick, Lucy looked at him kneeling by her side, and held herself away, leaning to the other hand to avoid the almost unavoidable contact. She kept her eyes fixed upon him to keep watch more than anything else, upon what he would do next.
He saw that his cause was lost. There was neither love nor gratitude for love in the stare of her troubled eyes; but he would not give in without another effort. He said, softly sinking his voice, “You ask what I want from you, Lucy? Alas! I thought you would have divined without asking. Your love, dear, in return for mine, which I have given you. What I want is nothing less than your love—and yourself.”
Again he put out his hands to take hers. To think that this should be all the mere fancy of a little girl, all that stood between him and bliss, not perhaps the usual kind of lover’s bliss, yet happiness, rapture. Impatience seized him, which he could scarcely restrain. Such a trifling obstacle as this, no obstacle at all, for it was clear she could not know what was for her own advantage, what would make her happy. Then came an impatient inclination upon him to capture her by his bow and spear, to seize upon her simply and carry her off, and compel her to see what was for her own advantage. But alas! the rules of conventional life were too many for St. Clair. Though this he felt would have been the natural and the sensible way of proceeding, he could not adopt it. He had still to kneel by her side and do his best to persuade her. He could not force her to do even what was so evidently for her good.
The extremity of her need brought back Lucy’s courage. She felt herself driven to bay, and it was evident that he must have no doubt as to the answer she gave. She looked at him as steadily as her trembling would permit, a deep flush came over her face, her lips quivered.
“Do you mean that you want to—marry me, Mr. St. Clair?” she said.