The tone of kindness in which these words were spoken opened the flood-gates of his heart, and he could not resist the impulse to tell her how much he had loved her, and how he should cherish her memory, though fate had placed an insurmountable barrier between them. His words flowed in a torrent of burning eloquence. Unconsciously he and Miss Stanhope walked on, though they had long passed the hotel; and when he had concluded they were at the end of the street, on the wild, bleak common.
Not until he had told his tale, and a minute or two of silence had followed, did Derwent venture even to look at his companion. But, on doing so, he found she was scarcely less agitated than himself. She trembled visibly, and when, as soon happened, she turned to answer him, traces of tears were on her cheeks.
“Mr. Derwent,” she said, “I will be frank with you, for, in these matters, perfect frankness is a suitor’s right. I will not say that this declaration of passion surprises me, for, in spite of my having heard that you were insincere, I thought I saw in you a real esteem for me. It would be affectation for me to deny this. That I am shocked at your loss of fortune, I need not say; I feel too great an interest in you to do otherwise, and this interest I am not unwilling, you see, openly to acknowledge.”
She looked at him with such noble frankness, that Derwent, enraptured by so unexpected an avowal, could scarcely refrain from snatching her hand and carrying it to his lips. But he thought of the public common; and then he thought also of his poverty, and how idle all this was—so he remained motionless and silent.
“You tell me,” she continued, “that you are now almost a beggar; and that, therefore, you resign my hand. But, excuse me—for surely it is not unmaidenly for me to say this—are you doing right in acting thus? Is wealth necessary to happiness? Will not a sufficiency insure felicity if there is real love in the union? You have talents, and I hope, energy; if I thought otherwise I could not love you. You have also a profession, which you avow your intention of following. Pray do not misunderstand me—I do not wish to make myself a burden to you—but neither must you suppose that I am base enough to you, or sufficiently ignorant of what will constitute my own happiness, to refuse you because you are a poor, instead of a rich man. In a worldly view even a penniless lawyer,” she said, smiling, “is a very good match for the companion of a rich heiress.”
Amazement at this noble conduct had kept Derwent silent until now, but he could no longer remain quiet.
“And you are generous enough,” he cried, “to unite your fate with mine, if ever I grow rich enough to offer you a home?”
“I am not very exacting in my tastes, Mr. Derwent,” replied the fair girl, “and, therefore, shall be contented with what you would think a very humble home. The moment, therefore, that you can give me one, in which you will be willing to live yourself, that moment I will become your wife. But remember,” she added archly, “I am flesh and blood after all, and cannot live merely on love. I am willing, with that confidence which my affection inspires, to wait for you, and believe you will never seek me until you can support me; but that will not be long hence, if I judge your talents aright. And now never, never,” she added earnestly, “doubt again a woman’s single-heartedness in love.”
Derwent was equally bewildered and transported. In his wildest dreams he had never imagined Miss Stanhope as noble and generous as he now found her. He told her as much.
“You flatter me more than I deserve,” she replied. “Life, in all circumstances, is a season of trial; wealth cannot secure immunity from trouble; and perhaps the happiest, after all, are those who labor for their daily bread, because their toil sweetens the meal. Nay, I am sure I shall love you more, because I shall think you more manly.”