A moment before I had no thought that these words would ever pass my lips. They were almost as much of a shock to me as to the girl. It had been my secret; or shall I say that it was almost a secret to me? Exquisite charm! In my calmer moments, I should have hated the thought of ever tearing this tender veil of mystery and reserve, behind which all that is sweetest in emotion dwells. To be able to love her as at first one loves the light, without analysis, was the most stimulating of joys; to have it all set down in quantitative inventory of vows, and bonds, and declarations, might be quite another thing. Now, my heart was naked to her gaze, and I stood silent with a sort of shame.
She, too, was silent. She had taken her hand from mine, and clasped it in the other, behind her, just as on the day of our first meeting; and there she stood, erect, contemplative, almost on the same spot. The feet were drawn together, the head was thrown back; it was her characteristic attitude for emergencies. So had I seen her first, the beautiful piece of life, the divine animal, flawless in health and strength and freshness as a Venus of the Louvre, yet all touched with spiritual loveliness by the great eyes—fierce now, as I feared—and by the heaving breast.
‘I cannot help it,’ I said, with a sort of sullen passion. ‘I felt so sure that I could keep this thing back that I set no guard over myself. Since it is out, take the truth. Whatever comes of it, we can never be the same to each other again.’
‘We must be the same,’ she said, with all the deep liquid softness in her voice, that was missing from her gaze. ‘Oh! I knew this would come one day, I knew it would. And I did nothing to prevent it. The fault is all mine.’
‘The fault?’
‘I am the wretchedest woman that ever lived,’ sobbed Victoria, suddenly sinking to the ground in a passion of tears, and beating it, in the wild despairing way of her sister-savages, when the boat took their sweethearts away—statue no longer, but very flesh and blood in every quivering nerve.
I did not try to raise her, I did not stir. In a few moments, when the paroxysm had passed, she raised herself, and then came, in the tenderest way, and took my hand, and looked straight into my eyes, this time, through the blessed dews that dimmed her own.
‘You must know it. Some one else loves me. The word has been spoken. I am promised. Come with me—but never tell a living soul! Then, I should die.’
She led me swiftly to a small grove of wild trees, nestling in a dip of the rock, and thin and poor, for they saw neither the eastern nor the western sun. And, plunging into it, her hand still holding mine, then climbing again, after the sharp descent, she stopped before a dwarf-tree, where the Ancient would never have thought of looking for any infraction of his forest laws. A rude monogram was carved on the tree, with a date and two crosses.
‘We cut them together on our last day,’ said the girl, laying her finger on one of the crosses, ‘and this was mine. This was cut from his coat the same day,’ and she drew the wretched old navy-button from its nest in her pure bosom. ‘Now you know all. I am promised; and if I forget it, how can I ever say my prayers again?’