He took my hand.

"It is very good of you, Westenra; we shall have a delightful evening; all that thundery feeling has gone out of the air, everything is crisp and fresh, and you'll enjoy your drive."

None of the servants saw us go out, and it was Albert himself who put me into the victoria. He sat beside me, took the reins, and we were off.

"Don't you think this is a neat little turn-out?" he said, as we drove down in the soft summer air to Richmond.

I praised the victoria to his heart's content, and then I told him that I thought his taste was much improved.

"It is all owing to you, dear," he replied. "You like things to look _gentle_ somehow. I could not see myself looking at you in a place with _loud_ things. It was only this morning I was saying to myself, early this morning, I mean"--he gave a quick sigh as he uttered these last words--"I was saying to myself, that we would furnish the house at Highgate over again according to your ideas. We would just leave a couple of rooms for mother, according to her tastes, and you and I should have the rest of the house furnished as you like. Liberty, Morris, all the rest, everything soft, and cloudy, and dim, and you walking about in the midst of the pretty things, and I coming home, and--but, never mind, dear, only I would like you always to feel, that there is nothing under the sun I would not do for you, nothing."

"You are very, very kind," I murmured.

"Oh, it is not real kindness," he replied with great earnestness. "You must not speak of it as kindness; you cannot call it that, when you love, and I love you so much, little girl, that when I do things for you, I do things for myself; you can never call it just _kindness_ when you please yourself. That is how I feel about the matter. You understand, don't you?"

I nodded. I understood very well. Albert thought me kind when I said gentle and affectionate words to him, but he thought himself rather selfish than otherwise, when he poured out his whole heart at my feet.

As we were driving quickly in the direction of Richmond, he told me many of his plans. I had never heard him speak more freely nor unrestrainedly. Amongst other things he mentioned Jane Mullins.

"She is a capital woman," he said, "and she and I have gone carefully into the matter of the house in Graham Square. Jane wants to give it up, and it is quite too big for her to manage alone. I am starting her in a little boarding-house in Pimlico, and with her business-like instincts she will do uncommonly well there. She spoke of you when I saw her yesterday, there were tears in her eyes."

"She must come and see us when we are settled at Highgate," I replied, but to this remark of mine he made no answer.

We got to Richmond, and had some dinner, and then we went out, and walked up and down on the terrace outside the hotel. There was a lovely view, and the stars were coming out. Albert said--

"Let us turn down this walk. It is quite sheltered and rather lonely, and at the farther end there is an arbour, they call it the 'Lover's Arbour.' Beyond doubt many lovers have sat there; you and I, Westenra, will sit there to-night."

I had been feeling almost happy in his society--I had almost forgotten the d.u.c.h.ess, and even Jim Randolph had been put into the background of my thoughts; but when Albert proposed that he and I should sit in the "Lover's Arbour" as lovers, I felt a shiver run through me. I said not a word, however, and I do not think he noticed the momentary unwillingness which made me pause and hesitate. We walked between the beautiful flowering shrubs, and under the leafy trees to the little arbour, and we entered. I seated myself; he stood in the doorway.

"Won't you come and sit down, too?" I said.

"Do you ask me?" he answered, a light leaping into his eyes.

"Yes, I do ask you," I replied after a moment.

He sat down--then suddenly without the slightest warning, his arms were round me; he had strained me to his heart; he had kissed me several times on my lips.

"Oh, you ought not," I could not help exclaiming.

"But why not?" he cried, and he did not let me go, but looked into my eyes, almost fiercely it seemed to me. "You are my promised wife, may I not kiss you just once?"

"Oh, I know, you have the right to kiss me, but you have always been----" I could not finish the words. He suddenly dropped his arms, moved away from me, and stood up. His face was gloomy, then the gloom seemed to clear as by a great effort.

"I have kissed you," he said; "I vowed I would, and I have done it. I shall remember that kiss, and the feel of you in my arms, all my life long; but I am not going to think of my own feelings, I have something far more important to say. Do you know, little girl, that I received an awful shock to-day? Now, listen. You gave me your bond, did you not?"

"I did, Albert, I did."

"Just come out here, dear, I want to see your face. Ah! the moon shines on it and lights it up; there never was a face in all the world like yours, never to me; and I vowed, that because of it, and because of you, I would lead a good life, a beautiful life. A great deal, that I did not think was in me, has been awakened since you were good to me, Westenra."

"You have been very kind to me, Albert," I said, "and I will marry you. I will marry you when a year is up."

"You are a good girl," he said, patting my hand; but he did not squeeze it, nor even take it in his. "You are a very good girl, and you remember your bond. It was faithfully given, was it not?"

"Very faithfully, Albert."

"And you always, always meant to keep it?"

"I always did. I will keep it. Albert, why do you question me? Why do you doubt me?"

"I will tell you in a minute, darling. Now I want to ask you a question. Do you love me the least little sc.r.a.p? Look well, well into your heart before you answer. I know that when you said you would marry me, you did not love me. You were willing to be bone of my bone, and flesh of my flesh; my dear, dear wife, till death us did part; you were willing to be all that?"

"I was," I said.

"And yet had you _never_ a kindly feeling towards me?"

"A very kindly feeling," I answered, "very kindly, but I----"

"I know," he said, "you are a good girl. I won't press you too hard.

Still my questions are not quite over. Had you, Westenra, at the time you promised yourself to me, any sort of idea that you cared for another?"

"He was dead, or at least, I thought he was dead," I said, trembling, and turning away. "Had I thought him alive, even for mother's sake, I could not have done it, but I thought him dead."

"And now that he has come back, you are sorry you gave me that bond?"

"Do not question me," I replied; "I will do my best for you; you will never regret that you have taken me to be your wife, but you must not question me."

"Because of your sore, sore heart," he said, looking very kindly at me; and now I looked back at him, and saw that in some wonderful way the expression on his face had changed; the look of pa.s.sion had left it--it was quite quiet, a very kindly face, a very good face; never were there more honest blue eyes.

"I pressed you hard," he said, "I should not have done it, I see it all now, and you were so good and so unselfish. You gave me that bond for your mother's sake. I meant to put you into a corner; I meant to force your hand. It was unfair, miserably unfair. I did not think so at the time, but now I see it. Well, my dear, you are so gentle, and so different from other girls, that you have opened my eyes. There is a good bit of pain in having one's eyes opened sometimes, but there is also great joy in giving perfect joy to one whom you love, as I love you. So, if you will promise, little girl, faithfully, that never, never shall those debts which I paid for you, be paid back again to me; if you will allow me, for the whole of my life, to feel that I was the one who saved Westenra in her hour of bitter need; I was the one who helped her mother in her last moments to go down to the grave in peace, if you will promise all that, Westenra, there is an end of everything else. You have your bond back again. I don't want it, child, it is yours to do what you will with. You are free, Westenra.

If it is hard on me, I am not going to talk of myself; but, I hope, I am manly enough to bear a bit of pain, and not cause the girl I love best on earth to suffer pain to her dying day. You are free, Westenra, that is all."

"But I won't be free," I answered pa.s.sionately, for at that moment all the heroism in me, all that my dead father had given me before I was born, all that I owed to him, sprang to life in my veins, and I saw Albert Fanning as a hero, and faintly, very faintly, I began to love him in return. Not for a moment with the love I had for Jim, but still with a love which might have made me a blessed if not a happy wife.

"I won't be free, Albert," I cried, "I gave you my bond, and I will keep it; I will marry you."

"Never mind about that just now," he said; "but do you think--" he sat down near me as he spoke, and looked me in the face. "Do you think you could bring yourself to do one last thing for me?"

"It won't be a last thing," I answered, "it will be the first of many; I will do everything for you; I will marry you."

"It is not such a big thing as that," he replied; "but it is a big thing, at least a very big thing to me. It is something that I shall prize all my life. I took you in my arms just now and kissed you--will you kiss me just once of your own accord?"

I did not hesitate; I raised my lips and pressed a kiss on his cheek.

He looked at me very mournfully and quietly.

"Thank you," he said, "I shall always have this to make a better man of me."

"But I am going to be yours; you won't cast me off," I pleaded; "I said I would marry you on the 1st of June next year, and I will."