remember my losing it among the firs, and the hunt you two had?”
“I quite recollect the circumstance,” replied Westby; “but Lilian, I have come here to-day to apologise for speaking as I did.”
“No, no, I beg,” interrupted Lilian.
“Yes, to apologise, if you will accept my apology?”
“I know I was quite in the wrong,” protested Lilian.
“I must explain exactly what I mean. You were in error—if you will allow me to say so—in ever accepting George Newton, and so far there might be reason in what I said. But then, in my absurd indignation, I departed from facts, and hastily generalising on your character, I said you lacked true feeling and constancy, and such like qualities; that you were not worthy of being his sister. I fear I used words as strong as those. I have come to ask your forgiveness for all that, and frankly to confess that I was entirely mistaken.”
“Karlo Magno!”
“I know, Lilian, my words must have had a sad sting from their great injustice: I shall never forgive myself for having said them. Judge not—judge not,” he muttered, in self-reproach; “it was mighty easy to forget that precept.”
For a time she was lost in amazement, but regaining her self-possession—“Oh, Karlo Magno, why do you tell me all this now?—he has been dead to us these six months! If you had told me this then, I should have had comfort: why now, more than then?”
Westby made no reply.
“Why now?” she urged passionately. “Comfort, no, no! I could not have believed you then. I should have felt that your words were no more than a desire for reconciliation, occasioned by his death; not the evidence of real belief. I can only see them in that light now.”
“I assure you, on my honour, Lilian.”
She did not heed his protestation.
“Now that you have recurred to the subject—I, on my part, would have passed it by, hidden it over—I will tell you how much I felt when I heard your words—yes, and thought them over—for it seemed to me, esteeming your character as I do, that they must represent the opinion of all those whose good opinion was worth preserving. I was utterly cast down. But all that is passed,” she added, after a painful pause. “I know you spoke from a good motive—in that thought I forgive all the rest. Pray let us cease to talk of this painful subject. I am very happy to see you now.”
“No, no, Lilian,” he replied, hastily, “I must make you believe me.” She almost turned from him, so distressed was she by his pertinacity in renewing the conversation. “When I spoke then, like a fool, I was ignorant of the truth—I know it now.”
“Know what?” she asked, anxiously.
“I accused you of want of constancy—of fickleness—I, in my miserable blindness, not knowing that strongest constancy was at the very root of your rejection of George Newton. It might be for others to blame you—it was not for me. Lilian, you have forced me to speak plainly; because I do know the truth—every iota, I have come to ask your pardon.”
She trembled as she heard him, and turned pale.
“Has he revenged himself on me by being false to his word?” she murmured.
“Who?”
“Mr. Newton!”
“George Newton! The truth did not come from him.”
“Impossible!”
“Was there not another who knew it?”
“But he is dead!”
“The truth was bequeathed to me, Lilian—a sacred trust confided to Captain Milton. Your brother bade him, at the very last, tell me everything—they had often talked in confidence on the subject—and place those letters of yours in my hands.”
It was well nigh too much to hear. Lilian could not meet his gaze; she covered her face with her hands.
“He told Captain Milton,” continued Westby, “that it was to have been the dearest pleasure of his life to bring about an understanding between us. But God had not so willed it, and with his dying breath he left it to Captain Milton to tell me the truth. Oh, Lilian! I was driven half mad when I read those letters in which you confess all to him. I will not talk to you now of love—my conduct has forfeited all that claim. I threw away the golden chance once; but when I think that my blind conduct has been the cause of all that was blameworthy in you, how I have accused you, and I was the wretched cause—”
He saw, notwithstanding the vehemence of his own feelings, how deeply she was moved.
“Well, perhaps, I ought to have written and not come abruptly to you at this time, but I was desperate to repair the evil, and withdraw my wretched accusation.”
There was no power in her tongue to speak; striving hard to listen, she was scarcely able to follow his vehement words.
“And yet, Lilian,” he continued, “though my stupid blindness may justly have annihilated your love for me, I cannot leave till I declare how deeply I have loved you. You know what my lot in life has been. I spoke of it to you and your poor brother that time ago in Switzerland. I am not the same as those others who have been about your path. I have been forced through life to crush my wishes. Oh! it is a glorious joy to declare one’s love when one possesses the worldly means of happiness; but I was sobered very early to the necessities of life; I knew the utter folly of indulging in a hopeless passion; yet I felt as deeply, Lilian—deeper, deeper!” he added, vehemently, “than those others, but I had to cast that feeling from my heart. You must not think that the strife and work of life had destroyed my heart. I was bewildered when I dwelt on it, the thought of one living in such a happy sphere caring for me and my affairs. Oh, Lilian! I could not have imagined the depth of your truth and constancy—I thought that the difference between us was far too great for your feeling to be more than that of the moment—yet I
