"And did you believe that I had a good motive--a motive which you might yourself have appreciated--for not telling you the name of that friend?"
"Is he some one whom I know?"
"Ought you to ask me that, after what I have just said?"
"Pray forgive me! I spoke without thinking."
"I can hardly believe it, when I remember how you spoke to me yesterday. I could never have supposed, before we became acquainted with each other, that it was in the nature of a man to understand me so perfectly, to be so gentle and so considerate in feeling for my distress. You confused me a little, I must own, by what you said afterward. But I am not sure that ought to be severe in blaming you. Sympathy--I mean such sympathy as yours--sometimes says more than discretion can always approve.
Have you not found it so yourself?"
"I have found it so with you."
"And perhaps I have shown a little too plainly how dependent I am on you--how dreadful it would be to me if I lost you too as a friend?"
She blushed as she said it. When the words had escaped her, she felt that they might bear another meaning than the ****** meaning which she had attached to them. He took her hand; his doubts of himself, his needless fear of offending her, restrained him no longer.
"You can never lose me," he said, "if you will only let me be the nearest friend that a woman can have. Bear with me, dearest! I ask for so much; I have so little to offer in return. I dream of a life with you which is perhaps too perfectly happy to be enjoyed on earth. And yet, I cannot resign my delusion. Must my poor heart always long for happiness which is beyond my reach? If an overruling Providence guides our course through this world, may we not sometimes hope for happier ends than our mortal eyes can see?"
He waited a moment--and sighed--and dropped her hand. She hid her face; she knew what it would tell him: she was ashamed to let him see it.
"I didn't mean to distress you," he said sadly.
She let him see her face. For a moment only, she looked at him--and then let silence tell him the rest.
His arms closed round her. Slowly, the glory of the sun faded from the heavens, and the soft summer twilight fell over the earth. "I can't speak," he whispered; "my happiness is too much for me."
"Are you sure of your happiness?" she asked.
"Could I think as I am thinking now, if I were not sure of it?"
"Are you thinking of _me?_"
"Of you--and of all that you will be to me in the future. Oh, my angel, if God grants us many years to come, what a perfect life I see!"
"Tell me--what do you see?"
"I see a husband and wife who are all in all to each other. If friends come to us, we are glad to bid them welcome; but we are always happiest by ourselves."
"Do we live in retirement?"
"We live where you like best to live. Shall it be in the country?"
"Yes! yes! You have spoken of the sea as you might have spoken of your best friend--we will be near the sea. But I must not keep you selfishly all to myself. I must remember how good you have been to poor creatures who don't feel our happiness, and who need your kindness. Perhaps I might help you? Do you doubt it?"
"I only doubt whether I ought to let you see what I have seen; I am only afraid of the risk of ****** you unhappy. You tempt me to run the risk. The help of a woman--and of such a woman as you are--is the one thing I have wanted. Your influence would succeed where my influence has often failed. How good, how thoughtful you would be!"
"I only want to be worthy of you," she said, humbly. "When may I see your Home?"
He drew her closer to him: tenderly and timidly he kissed her for the first time. "It rests with you," he answered. "When will you be my wife?"
She hesitated; he felt her trembling. "Is there any obstacle?" he asked.
Before she could reply, Kitty's voice was heard calling to her mother--Kitty ran up to them.
Catherine turned cold as the child caught her by the hand, eagerly claiming her attention. All that she should have remembered, all that she had forgotten in a few bright moments of illusion, rose in judgment against her, and struck her mind prostrate in an instant, when she felt Kitty's touch.
Bennydeck saw the change. Was it possible that the child's sudden appearance had startled her? Kitty had something to say, and said it before he could speak.
"Mamma, I want to go where the other children are going. Susan's gone to her supper. You take me."
Her mother was not even listening. Kitty turned impatiently to Bennydeck. "Why won't mamma speak to me?" she asked. He quieted her by a word. "You shall go with me." His anxiety about Catherine was more than he could endure. "Pray let me take you back to the house," he said. "I am afraid you are not well."
"I shall be better directly. Do me a kindness--take the child!"
She spoke faintly and vacantly. Bennydeck hesitated. She lifted her trembling hands in entreaty. "I beg you will leave me!" Her voice, her manner, made it impossible to disobey. He turned resignedly to Kitty and asked which way she wanted to go. The child pointed down the path to one of the towers of the Crystal Palace, visible in the distance. "The governess has taken the others to see the company go away," she said; "I want to go too."
Bennydeck looked back before he lost sight of Catherine.
She remained seated, in the attitude in which he had left her. At the further end of the path which led to the hotel, he thought he saw a figure in the twilight, approaching from the house. There would be help near, if Catherine wanted it.
His uneasy mind was in some degree relieved, as he and Kitty left the garden together.
