Kathleen durst say no more. Yet she had hoped and longed that her cousin might make up to Aylmer for the disappointment she had caused him. Each, however, seemed to find happiness in a life of unostentatious good-doing, and, in Geraldine's case, in filial duty also.
Kathleen knew no more than others did, that Aylmer had lately asked Geraldine to be his wife.
He had always been profoundly impressed by the beauty of her character, and since his great love for Kathleen had been all in vain, he had begun to ask himself, if esteem might not be a sufficiently firm foundation on which to build his hope of wedded happiness.
To Geraldine Aylmer's offer was at once a temptation and a trial. Her heart was his, and yet when he asked her to share his lot she refused his offer.
"I am too romantic, too much of a woman to marry on your terms, Aylmer," she replied to his honest confession, for he had told her all the truth.
"Still, dear Geraldine, with such a foundation, and the certainty that our hopes, aims, and labours would be in perfect accord, might we not reasonably expect more than the average amount of happiness?"
"Perhaps so, but not the highest and best of all. Not the kind that God's laws have ordained as the condition of a perfect union. I could not be satisfied for you to have anything less than the best that is possible, and you would not have this ideal union, as the husband of one whom you regard only as a dear friend. I know you feel respect and a kind of affection for me, but the inner sanctuary of your heart is barred against me and all the world beside."
"But if I can make you happy, and you can give me—" Aylmer began.
A crimson flush overspread Geraldine's face as she pleaded, "Please do not go on. Surely, in such a case, a man should not ask more than he can give, and a woman ought to refuse anything less than an equivalent for what she bestows."
Then, as if realizing the implied confession she had made, Geraldine covered her face with her hands to hide tears of mingled pain and humiliation.