American fiction -- 19th century; Love stories; Romance fiction, American
“Don’t misunderstand me,” cried the girl. “You could not help it. How
could you? The old love never died out, really. And now, when you see
her so much better, and more beautiful, how could it be otherwise than
that it should spring into new life, and be stronger than ever? It is
Lisbeth you love, Hector, and she is worthy of your love--of anybody’s
love, if you would only understand her rightly. Is it pride that holds
you back from showing your heart to her, or is it because, even though
you love her, you have not forgiven her for your old misery? Tell me.”
“Do I love her,” he asked, “or hate her?”
“You love her,” answered Georgie.
“And yet,” he said, gloomily, “I have asked you to marry me, and you
have answered me, as gently as an angel might have done.”
“It was only that you made a mistake,” said the girl.
“A mistake!” he echoed. “Ay, it was a mistake! And, as I said, it is
not the first I have made. My life has been full of blunders.”
“Oh!” said Georgie, “how I wish I was wise enough to know how to set
them right. If you would only trust me and let me try.”
He gave her a mournful smile.
“I thought there was a way,” he said, “but you did not agree with me.”
“I knew better,” shaking her head, and coloring. “And perhaps I was too
proud and jealous. I am not so good as you think me. I am very fond
of you, but not fond enough to take your half-loaf. Let us forget it
altogether.”
CHAPTER XVII.
GOOD-BY.
Surely, so serious a question was never so dismissed in so short a
time. For these few busy moments, the matter was as completely disposed
of, as if they had spent hours in arguing it. He scarcely knew how it
was that he felt so sure that he need say no more; that the brave,
simple, pretty Georgie had set his poor, weak plans aside so easily,
and yet so tenderly. Much as he admired and reverenced her, there was
a depth in her girlish nature which he had never sounded. It was all
over for him with Georgie Esmond, though he need not fear that her
friendship would ever waver.
“If I was only wise enough to help you,” she repeated; “if you would
only trust me, and let me try.”
“If any one could help me, you could,” he said, “but there is no help
for me.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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