“Cordelia,” he said, when the usual salutations of the morning had been exchanged, “I have a few words to say to you; and I have come out here this morning to say them. I might not have time after breakfast, as I must return to Oxford to-day.”
The girl had stopped in her walk and stood facing him. A tremor, which she could not repress, shook her frame; for she knew very well, or she believed she knew, what he wished to speak about.
“I am listening, Lord Oakleigh.”
“Bah! Why do you eternally ‘lord’ me? I don’t like it, at least from your lips.”
“My lord, I give you the title respectfully, because it is yours. I can call you by your Christian name, if you wish it.”
“I do wish it: and I wish you to remember it. It will do very well for the servants to dub me ‘lord’ and for my grandfather when he is in the mood; but I don’t want it from you.” He paused and looked around.
“Haven’t you a seat anywhere about here?”
“If you are weary, you will find a very comfortable seat in yonder grape-arbor.”
“I’m not weary, my dear lady; but it is sometimes weary work to converse on one’s feet. Come with me to the arbor. I won’t keep you long. Bless me! I hope you’re not afraid of me.”
She was afraid of him; but she would not confess it. There was a coarseness in his manner; a lowness in his speech, his clipping and contracting words more like a private trooper than like an English gentleman, that disgusted her; and there was a look in his gleaming, sunken black eyes that made her afraid.