“What do you mean?” he asked, astonished at this, for no suspicion of her meaning dawned upon him. “You have no fault to find with me. Surely want of frankness is a fault?”
“Yes, but I think it is only your thought for me. You are so anxious that everything should be made smooth and bright for me, that you do not give me your full confidence, Erle”—pressing closer to him, and looking up in his face with her clear, loving eyes. “Do you think that I can love you so and not notice how changed you have been of late—how pale and care-worn? though you have tried to hide from me that you were unhappy.”
He pulled his mustache nervously, but he could not answer her.
“How often I have watched for you,” she continued, “when your poor uncle’s illness has detained you, and have seen you cross the square with your head bent and such a sad look on your face; and yet, when we meet, you have nothing for me but pleasant words, as though my presence had dispelled the cloud.”
“And why not, Eva? do you think your bright face would not charm away any melancholy mood?” But she turned away as though not noticing the little compliment. He was always making these pretty speeches to her, but just now they jarred on her. It was truth—his whole confidence—that she wanted; and no amount of soft words could satisfy her.
“You are always good to me—always,” she went on; “but you do not tell me all that is in your heart. When no one is speaking to you, I often see such a tired, harassed look on your face, and yet you will never tell me what is troubling you, dear; when we come together—when you make me your wife, will our life be always unclouded; am I to share none of your cares and perplexities then?”
He was silent; how was he to answer her?
“It would not be a true marriage,” she continued, in a low, vehement tone, “if you did not think me worthy to share your thoughts. Erle, you are not treating me well; why do you not tell me frankly what makes you so unlike yourself. Can you look me in the face and tell me that you are perfectly happy and satisfied?”
“I am very fond of you; what makes you talk like this, Eva?” but his eyelids drooped uneasily, How was he to meet those candid eyes and tell her that he was happy—surely the lie would choke him—when he knew that he was utterly miserable.
“Erle,” she said in a low voice, and her face became very pale, “you do not look at me, and somehow your manner frightens me; you are fond of me, you say—a few months ago you asked me to be your wife; can you take my hand now and tell me, as I understood you to tell me then, that I am dearer to you than any one else in the world?”