Part 3 (1/2)
”If all that is true, or partly true,” said Horace, ”can't you guess why?”
”I guessed how it was when you called here first that afternoon. Mamma had asked you to, and you thought you might as well be civil; perhaps you really did think it would be pleasant to see us again--but it wasn't the same thing. Oh, I saw it in your face directly--you became conventional and distant and horrid, and it made me horrid too; and you went away determined that you wouldn't see any more of us than you could help. That's why I was so furious when I heard that papa had been to see you, and with such an object.”
All this was so near the truth, and yet missed it with such perverse ingenuity, that Horace felt bound to put himself right.
”Perhaps I ought to leave things as they are,” he said, ”but I can't.
It's no earthly use, I know; but may I tell you why it really was painful to me to meet you again? I thought _you_ were changed, that you wished to forget, and wished me to forget--only I can't--that we had been friends for a short time. And though I never blamed you--it was natural enough--it hit me pretty hard--so hard that I didn't feel anxious to repeat the experience.”
”Did it hit you hard?” said Sylvia, softly. ”Perhaps I minded too, just a very little. However,” she added, with a sudden smile, that made two enchanting dimples in her cheeks, ”it only shows how much more sensible it is to have things out. _Now_ perhaps you won't persist in keeping away from us?”
”I believe,” said Horace, gloomily, still determined not to let any direct avowal pa.s.s his lips, ”it would be best that I _should_ keep away.”
Her half-closed eyes shone through their long lashes; the violets on her breast rose and fell. ”I don't think I understand,” she said, in a tone that was both hurt and offended.
There is a pleasure in yielding to some temptations that more than compensates for the pain of any previous resistance. Come what might, he was not going to be misunderstood any longer.
”If I must tell you,” he said, ”I've fallen desperately, hopelessly, in love with you. Now you know the reason.”
”It doesn't seem a very good reason for wanting to go away and never see me again. _Does_ it?”
”Not when I've no right to speak to you of love?”
”But you've done that!”
”I know,” he said penitently; ”I couldn't help it. But I never meant to.
It slipped out. I quite understand how hopeless it is.”
”Of course, if you are so sure as all that, you are quite right not to try.”
”Sylvia! You can't mean that--that you do care, after all?”
”Didn't you really see?” she said, with a low, happy laugh. ”How stupid of you! And how dear!”
He caught her hand, which she allowed to rest contentedly in his. ”Oh, Sylvia! Then you do--you do! But, my G.o.d, what a selfish brute I am! For we can't marry. It may be years before I can ask you to come to me. You father and mother wouldn't hear of your being engaged to me.”
”_Need_ they hear of it just yet, Horace?”
”Yes, they must. I should feel a cur if I didn't tell your mother, at all events.”
”Then you shan't feel a cur, for we'll go and tell her together.” And Sylvia rose and went into the farther room, and put her arms round her mother's neck. ”Mother darling,” she said, in a half whisper, ”it's really all your fault for writing such very long letters, but--but--we don't exactly know how we came to do it--but Horace and I have got engaged somehow. You aren't _very_ angry, are you?”
”I think you're both extremely foolish,” said Mrs. Futvoye, as she extricated herself from Sylvia's arms and turned to face Horace. ”From all I hear, Mr. Ventimore, you're not in a position to marry at present.”
”Unfortunately, no” said Horace; ”I'm making nothing as yet. But my chance must come some day. I don't ask you to give me Sylvia till then.”
”And you know you like Horace, mother!” pleaded Sylvia. ”And I'm ready to wait for him, any time. Nothing will induce me to give him up, and I shall never, never care for anybody else. So you see you may just as well give us your consent!”
”I'm afraid I've been to blame,” said Mrs. Futvoye. ”I ought to have foreseen this at St. Luc. Sylvia is our only child, Mr. Ventimore, and I would far rather see her happily married than making what is called a 'grand match.' Still, this really does seem _rather_ hopeless. I am quite sure her father would never approve of it. Indeed, it must not be mentioned to him--he would only be irritated.”
”So long as you are not against us,” said Horace, ”you won't forbid me to see her?”