‘May I ask for a few minutes, Miss Raeburn?’ he began. ‘I have come here for a serious purpose. My uncle is the bearer of a letter to her ladyship. It is from my mother, and is written in corroboration of one which I lately received from my father. I had written to ask their approval of a step—a very important step—which I contemplate. Miss Raeburn—or may I say Cecilia?—it concerns yourself.’
‘Really, sir?’ said Cecilia, the cheerfulness of despair in her voice.
‘Yes, yourself. No young lady I have ever seen has so roused my admiration—my affection, I may say. I have made up my mind on that subject. Do not turn away, Miss Raeburn; it is quite true, believe me. My happiness is involved. To-morrow I shall hope to inform my parents that you will be my wife.’
He stopped in the path and would have taken her hand. She stepped back.
‘I cannot,’ she said. ‘I am sorry, but I cannot.’
‘You cannot!’ he exclaimed. ‘Why?’
‘It is impossible, sir, really.’
‘But you have Lady Eliza’s permission. She told me so herself. This is absurd, Miss Raeburn, and you are distressing me infinitely.’
‘Please put it out of your head, Mr. Fordyce. I cannot do it; there is no use in thinking of it. I do not want to hurt you, but it is quite impossible—quite.’
‘But why—why?’ he exclaimed. He looked bewildered.