‘Why did you do that, Thomas?’ she said, in a low voice.
Then I spoke. ‘I did it because I love you, Lily, and do not know how to begin the telling of my love. I love you, dear, and have always loved as I always shall love you.’
‘Are you so sure of that, Thomas?’ she said, again.
‘There is nothing else in the world of which I am so sure, Lily. What I wish to be as sure of is that you love me as I love you.’
For a moment she stood quiet, her head sunk almost to her breast, then she lifted it and her eyes shone as I had never seen them shine before.
‘Can you doubt it, Thomas?’ she said.
And now I took her in my arms and kissed her on the lips, and the memory of that kiss has gone with me through my long life, and is with me yet, when, old and withered, I stand upon the borders of the grave. It was the greatest joy that has been given to me in all my days. Too soon, alas! it was done, that first pure kiss of youthful love–and I spoke again somewhat aimlessly.
‘It seems then that you do love me who love you so well.’
‘If you doubted it before, can you doubt it NOW?’ she answered very softly. ‘But listen, Thomas. It is well that we should love each other, for we were born to it, and have no help in the matter, even if we wished to find it. Still, though love be sweet and holy, it is not all, for there is duty to be thought of, and what will my father say to this, Thomas?’
‘I do not know, Lily, and yet I can guess. I am sure, sweet, that he wishes you to take my brother Geoffrey, and leave me on one side.’
‘Then his wishes are not mine, Thomas. Also, though duty be strong, it is not strong enough to force a woman to a marriage for which she has no liking. Yet it may prove strong enough to keep a woman from a marriage for which her heart pleads–perhaps, also, it should have been strong enough to hold me back from the telling of my love.’
‘No, Lily, the love itself is much, and though it should bring no fruit, still it is something to have won it for ever and a day.’
‘You are very young to talk thus, Thomas. I am also young, I know, but we women ripen quicker. Perhaps all this is but a boy’s fancy, to pass with boyhood.’
‘It will never pass, Lily. They say that our first loves are the longest, and that which is sown in youth will flourish in our age. Listen, Lily; I have my place to make in the world, and it may take a time in the making, and I ask one promise of you, though perhaps it is a selfish thing to seek. I ask of you that you will be faithful to me, and come fair weather or foul, will wed no other man till you know me dead.’
‘It is something to promise, Thomas, for with time come changes. Still I am so sure of myself that I promise–nay I swear it. Of you I cannot be sure, but things are so with us women that we must risk all upon a throw, and if we lose, good-bye to happiness.’
Then we talked on, and I cannot remember what we said, though these words that I have written down remain in my mind, partly because of their own weight, and in part because of all that came about in the after years.
And at last I knew that I must go, though we were sad enough at parting. So I took her in my arms and kissed her so closely that some blood from my wound ran down her white attire. But as we embraced I chanced to look up, and saw a sight that frightened me enough. For there, not five paces from us, stood Squire Bozard, Lily’s father, watching all, and his face wore no smile.