Ayala's Angel [247]
say "No" to him, should he speak, and yet she desired that it should be "Yes". What a fool she had been, she told herself as she walked along now, and how little she had deserved all the good that had come to her!
The conversation was chiefly with him as they went. He told her much now of the how, and the when, and the where. He hoped there might be no long delay. He would live, he said, for the next year or two at Aldershot, and would be able to get a house fit for her on condition that they should be married at once. He did not explain why the house could not be taken even though their marriage were delayed two or three months -- but as to this she asked no questions. Of course they must be married in London if Mrs Dosett wished it; but if not it might be arranged that the wedding should take place at Stalham. Upon all this and many other things he had much to propose, and all that he said Ayala accepted as gospel. As the Angel of Light had appeared -- as the knight who was lord of the castle had come forth -- of course he must be obeyed in everything. He could hardly have made a suggestion to which she would not have acceded. When they had entered the wood Ayala in her own quiet way led him to the very spot in which on that former day he had asked her his question. "Do you remember this path?" she asked.
"I remember that you and I were walking here together," he said. "Ay, but this very turn? Do you remember this branch?"
"Well, no; not the branch."
"You put your hand on it when you said that 'never -- never,' to me."
"Did I say 'never -- never'?"
"Yes, you did -- when I was so untrue to you."
"Were you untrue?" he asked.
"Jonathan, you remember nothing about it. It has all passed away from you just as though you were talking to Captain Glomax about the fox."
"Has it, dear?"
"I remember every word of it. I remember how you stood and how you looked, even to the hat you wore and the little switch you held in your hand -- when you asked for one little word, one glance, one slightest touch. There, now -- you shall have all my weight to bear." Then she leant upon him with both her hands, turned round her arm, glanced up into his face, and opened her lips as though speaking that little word. "Do you remember that I said I thought you had given it all up?"
"I remember that, certainly."
"And was not that untrue? Oh, Jonathan, that was such a story. Had I thought so I should have been miserable."
"Then why did you swear to me so often that you could not love me?"
"I never said so," replied Ayala; "never."
"Did you not?" he asked.
"I never said so. I never told you such a story as that. I did love you then, almost as well as I do now. Oh, I had loved you for so long a time!"
"Then why did you refuse me?"
"Ah; that is what I would explain to you now -- here on this very spot -- if I could. Does it not seem odd that a girl should have all that she wants offered to her, and yet not be able to take it?"
"Was it all that you wanted!"
"Indeed it was. When I was in church that morning I told myself that I never, never could be happy unless you came to me again." "But when I did come you would not have me."
"I knew how to love you," she said, "but I did not know how to tell you that I loved you. I can tell you now; cannot I?" and then she looked up at him and smiled. "Yes, I think I shall never be tired of telling you now. It is sweet to hear you say that you love me, but it is sweeter still to be always telling you. And yet I could not tell you then. Suppose you had taken me at my word?"
"I told you that I should never give you up."
"It was only that that kept me from being altogether wretched. I think that I was ashamed to tell you the truth when I had once refused to do as you would have me. I had given you so much trouble all for nothing. I think that if you had asked me on that first day at the ball in London I should have said yes, if I had told the truth."
"That would have been very sudden. I had never seen you before that."
"Nevertheless
The conversation was chiefly with him as they went. He told her much now of the how, and the when, and the where. He hoped there might be no long delay. He would live, he said, for the next year or two at Aldershot, and would be able to get a house fit for her on condition that they should be married at once. He did not explain why the house could not be taken even though their marriage were delayed two or three months -- but as to this she asked no questions. Of course they must be married in London if Mrs Dosett wished it; but if not it might be arranged that the wedding should take place at Stalham. Upon all this and many other things he had much to propose, and all that he said Ayala accepted as gospel. As the Angel of Light had appeared -- as the knight who was lord of the castle had come forth -- of course he must be obeyed in everything. He could hardly have made a suggestion to which she would not have acceded. When they had entered the wood Ayala in her own quiet way led him to the very spot in which on that former day he had asked her his question. "Do you remember this path?" she asked.
"I remember that you and I were walking here together," he said. "Ay, but this very turn? Do you remember this branch?"
"Well, no; not the branch."
"You put your hand on it when you said that 'never -- never,' to me."
"Did I say 'never -- never'?"
"Yes, you did -- when I was so untrue to you."
"Were you untrue?" he asked.
"Jonathan, you remember nothing about it. It has all passed away from you just as though you were talking to Captain Glomax about the fox."
"Has it, dear?"
"I remember every word of it. I remember how you stood and how you looked, even to the hat you wore and the little switch you held in your hand -- when you asked for one little word, one glance, one slightest touch. There, now -- you shall have all my weight to bear." Then she leant upon him with both her hands, turned round her arm, glanced up into his face, and opened her lips as though speaking that little word. "Do you remember that I said I thought you had given it all up?"
"I remember that, certainly."
"And was not that untrue? Oh, Jonathan, that was such a story. Had I thought so I should have been miserable."
"Then why did you swear to me so often that you could not love me?"
"I never said so," replied Ayala; "never."
"Did you not?" he asked.
"I never said so. I never told you such a story as that. I did love you then, almost as well as I do now. Oh, I had loved you for so long a time!"
"Then why did you refuse me?"
"Ah; that is what I would explain to you now -- here on this very spot -- if I could. Does it not seem odd that a girl should have all that she wants offered to her, and yet not be able to take it?"
"Was it all that you wanted!"
"Indeed it was. When I was in church that morning I told myself that I never, never could be happy unless you came to me again." "But when I did come you would not have me."
"I knew how to love you," she said, "but I did not know how to tell you that I loved you. I can tell you now; cannot I?" and then she looked up at him and smiled. "Yes, I think I shall never be tired of telling you now. It is sweet to hear you say that you love me, but it is sweeter still to be always telling you. And yet I could not tell you then. Suppose you had taken me at my word?"
"I told you that I should never give you up."
"It was only that that kept me from being altogether wretched. I think that I was ashamed to tell you the truth when I had once refused to do as you would have me. I had given you so much trouble all for nothing. I think that if you had asked me on that first day at the ball in London I should have said yes, if I had told the truth."
"That would have been very sudden. I had never seen you before that."
"Nevertheless