“It is useless. Darthea. I am so made that I must say my say. Thou mayest try to escape, and hate it and me, but I have to say I love thee. No, I am not a boy. I am a man, and I won’t let thee answer me now.”
“I do not want to. It would hurt you. You must know; every one knows. It was his fault and my aunt’s, all this gossip. I would have kept it quiet.”
“It will never be,” I broke out. “Thou wilt never marry that man!” I knew when I said this that I had made a mistake. I had learned to distrust Arthur; but I had too little that was of moment to say against him to make it wise to speak as I had done. I was young in those days, and hasty.
“Who?” says my lady, all on fire. “What man? Jack Warder? And why not? I do not know what I shall do.”
“It is not my dear Jack,” I cried. “Why dost thou trifle with me?”
“Your dear Jack, indeed! How he blushes! I might ask him. He never would have the courage.”
“It is my cousin, Arthur Wynne, as thou well knowest. And thou art wicked to mock at an honest gentleman with thy light talk. Thou dost not know the man, this man, my cousin.”
“Only a boy would be so foolish or so unfair as to speak thus of one behind his back, and to a woman too, who—” And she paused, confused and angry.
I could not tell her what was only suspicion or hearsay as to my cousin’s double statements concerning his father’s estate, or how either she or we were deceived. I had, in fact, lost my head a little, and had gone further than was wise. I would not explain, and I was too vexed to say more than that I would say the same to his face. Then she rejoined softly:
“Tell it to me. You are as mysterious as Miss Wynne; and have I not a right to know?”