The eloquence was not in the words, but in the vibrating tones of his voice; and there were tears in her eyes as she answered—
"Vincent, I cannot—I dare not! You don't know how grandfather and I are situated: you are so generous, so open-minded, that—that you see everything in so favourable a light; but then other people might step in——
"Between you and me? Who?" he demanded, with set lips.
"Ah," she said, with a sigh, "who can tell? And besides—besides—do you not think I am as proud of you as any one?—do you not think I am looking forward to all that is expected of you?—and when I hear of you as this or that, I will say to myself 'I knew what Vincent was going to do; and now he is glad that he did not hamper himself out of—out of pity—for a friendless girl'——"
But here she broke down altogether, and covered her face with her hands, and sobbed without possibility of concealment. He was by her side in a moment; he laid his hand on the down-bent head—on the soft hair.
"Maisrie," he said, with the utmost gentleness, "don't make me angry. If you have anything to say why you cannot, or will not, be my wife, tell me; but do not be unreasonable and foolish. You speak of my future: it is nothing to me without you. You talk of the expectations of my friends: I tell you that my life is my own. And why should you be any drag or hamper—you! I wish you would think of yourself a little: not of me. Surely there is something better in the world than ambition, and figuring before the public in newspapers." Then he stopped for a second or two; and resumed in a lower and different tone. "Of course, if you refuse me your love, that is different. That I can understand. I have done nothing to deserve it: I have come to you as a beggar. If you refuse me that, there is nothing more to be said. I do not blame you. If I have made a mistake, so much the worse for me——"
She rose.
"Vincent," she said, between her half-stifled sobs, "you are not very kind. But it is better so—much better. Now I must go and help grandfather to find that book. And as this is to be the last word—well, then—dear friend—don't be so ungenerous to me when in after years you look back——"
But he was not likely to let her go like that. He interposed between her and the door; nay, he drew her towards him, and took her head between his hands, and pushed back the hair from her brow, as though he would read down to the very depths of those beautiful, tear-dimmed eyes.
"You have not refused me your love, Maisrie—because you dare not!" he said. "And what do I care whether you say it or not—when I know?" And therewith he kissed her on the mouth—and again—and again. "Now you are mine. You dare not deny your love—and I claim you as my wife——"