"Oh, stop, stop! I can't bear it. You must not talk like that," I cried desperately. "You are taking everything for granted, and it is impossible, quite impossible. I don't want to marry anyone. I'm too young. I must wait for years before I can even think of such a thing."

He looked actually relieved, instead of disappointed, as my words evidently removed one big difficulty from his path.

"I couldn't ask you to marry me yet, dearest. I have my way to make, and could not provide a home that would be worthy of you for some years to come; but as you say, we are both young, and can afford to wait; and oh, Una, I could work like ten men with such a prospect to inspire me.

I will get on for your sake; it is in me, I know it is--I shall succeed!"

"I hope you may, I'm sure," I said, nearly crying with agitation and misery. "But you must not think of me. I have nothing to do with it.

I like you very much, but I couldn't marry you now or ever--I never thought of such a thing--it's quite impossible. You must, please, please, never speak of it again!"

Even then he wouldn't understand, but preferred to think that I was shy, nervous, coy--anything rather than simply and absolutely truthful. He began again in a humble, pleading voice, which tore my heart.

"I know it seems presumption to ask so much. I am an insignificant n.o.body, and you might marry anyone you liked. In every sense of the word but one I am a wretched match for you, but love counts for something, and you will never find anyone to love you more. I'd give my very life to serve you, and I will give it, if you will trust yourself to me! My father was no older than I am when he became engaged, and he told me only the other day that he looked back on that hour as the beginning of his success. He would be glad to see me engaged also."

"Have you spoken about me to him, then, as well as to your mother?" I demanded testily. I felt so guilty about my own conduct that it was a relief to be able to find fault with someone else, and I worked myself up into quite a show of indignation. "You must have made very sure of my answer to be ready to discuss me in such a general fashion. It would have been more courteous to wait until you had my permission. You have placed us both in a most awkward position, for, as I said before, I could never marry you. It is quite impossible. I like you very much, but not in that way. Let us be friends, and forget everything else. We were so happy as we were--it is such a pity to spoil it all like this."

"Spoil it!" he repeated blankly. He had grown quite white while I was speaking, and his eyes had a dazed, startled expression. "Does it spoil things for you, Una, to know that I love you? But you have known that for a long time--everyone in the house found it out, and you could not have helped seeing it, too. You say I have made too sure of you.

Forgive me, darling, but if I have done so it is only because I know you are too sweet and good to encourage a man when there was no hope. I am more sorry than I can say if I have annoyed you by speaking to my parents, but the mater naturally spoke to me when she saw how things were going, and I had to consult my father about ways and means. Una, darling, you don't mean it. You can't mean to break my heart after leading me on all these weeks?"

"I never led you on!" I cried vainly. "I was only nice to you as I would have been to anyone else. I knew you liked me; but everyone who is kind and attentive does not want to marry one as a matter of course.

It would be horrid to expect it. Lorna is my friend, and you are her brother, so of course--"

He looked me full in the face and said slowly--

"It will be difficult to believe--but if you will tell me just once quite simply and plainly, I will take your word, Una. Don't protest, please--tell me truthfully, once for all: did you, or did you not, know I loved you with all my heart?"

I wanted to say "No." In a sense I could have said it truthfully enough, for I had no definite knowledge, but I remembered what Lorna had told me about the heroine in the novel; I remembered Mrs Forbes's wistful manner, and oh, a dozen little incidents too small to be written down, when Wallace's own manner had told the truth only too plainly. He was staring at me, poor boy, with his wan, miserable eyes, and I could not tell a lie. I began to cry in a feeble, helpless kind of way, and faltered out, "I--I thought you did, but I couldn't be sure. You know I couldn't be sure, and it was only for a little while! I am going home so soon that I didn't think it could matter."

He leant forward, leaning his head on his hands.

"Shall I tell you how much it matters?" he asked huskily. "It matters just this, that you have spoilt my life! There was not a happier, more contented fellow living than I was--before you came. I loved my work, and loved my home. I intended to succeed in my profession, and the future was full of interest. I would not have changed places with any man on earth. Now!" he held out his right hand and snapped his fingers expressively, "it is over; the zest is out of it all if you are not there. If I had met you anywhere else it might have been easier, but you have come right into the middle of my life, and if I would I shall not be able to forget you. Every morning when I come down to breakfast I shall look across the table and imagine you sitting facing me; I shall see you wherever I go--like a ghost--in every room in the house, in everything I do. That is the price I have to pay for your amus.e.m.e.nt.

You have made a fool of me, you whom I thought the type of everything that was true and womanly. You knew that I loved you, but it didn't matter to you what I suffered. You were going home soon--you would not see it. It didn't matter!"

"No, no, no!" I cried in agony. "It isn't true. I am bad enough, but not a heartless monster. I will tell you the whole truth. I was miserable myself when I came here; ill and tired out, and sore because-- because they didn't care for me at home as much as I wanted. I always want people to like me. I did at school--Lorna will tell you that I did; and when you were nice to me it cheered me up, and made me happy again. I never dreamt that it was serious until a little time ago--last week--and even then I did not think you could possibly want to marry me--you were too young--you had no home--"

"No, that is true. I am no match for Miss Sackville. I was a fool to forget it. Thank you for reminding me," he interrupted bitterly.

Poor boy--oh, poor boy, he looked so miserable--it made me ache to see his white, changed face. He looked so handsome, too; so much more of a man than he had ever done before. I looked at him and wondered why it was that I could not care for him as he wished. Had I been too hasty in deciding that it was impossible? He wanted me, and no one else did; and it would be nice to be engaged and have someone to love me best of all.

Perhaps I should grow to love him too; I always do like people who like me; and Lorna would be so pleased. She would be my real sister, and could come and stay with me in my own home. I was so upset and miserable, so stung by Wallace's taunt about his poverty, that I was just in the mind to be reckless. His hand lay limply by his side, and in a sudden gush of tenderness and pity I slid my arm beneath it and said softly, "Don't be cross with me! I never thought for one moment if you were poor or rich. That doesn't matter a bit. If I have made you miserable, I am miserable too. If you want me to be engaged to you--I will, and I'll try to like you. Please, please do not look like that!

If I promise it will be all right, and you will forgive me for being so thoughtless, won't you, Wallace?"

He turned his head and stared at me steadily. The anger died out of his face, but he looked dreadfully sad.

"Poor Una," he said, "how little you understand! Do you think I am such a cad as to accept such an offer as that? I love you and want you to be happy, not miserable as you would certainly be if you were engaged to a man you had to 'try to like.' Thank you for the offer all the same. It will comfort me a little to remember that at any rate you felt kindly towards me. It is no use saying any more. My dream is over, and I shall have to bear the awakening as well as I can. A fellow cannot expect to have everything his own way. I don't want to whine. Shall we go back to the house?"

"In a minute--one minute--only tell me first that you forgive me, and if there is nothing at all that I can do to help you, and show how wretchedly, wretchedly sorry I am!"

"Forgive you?" he repeated sadly. "I love you, Una. I can forgive you, I expect, a good deal more easily than you will forgive yourself. Yes, there is something you can do--if you ever discover that another poor fellow is in love with you--and you are the sort of girl whom men will love--remember me and spare him this experience. Don't go on being 'nice' to him. That kind of niceness is the worst form of cruelty."

I hung my head and could not answer. To think that "that boy," as I had contemptuously called him, should have behaved in such a manly, generous fashion! I felt utterly ashamed and despicable. It was he who is a thousand times too good for me!

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

We were very silent driving home in the brougham, and I refused to go into Lorna's room, as I always did before going to bed, saying that I was too tired to talk. She looked anxious, but did not try to persuade me. I afterwards learnt that she went to Wallace instead, and sat up with him for the greater part of the night.

I lay wide awake tossing and crying until five o'clock, when I fell asleep, and did not wake until nine. Lorna did not come to see me, and, though I dreaded her coming, I felt miserable because she stayed away.

Every single morning she had come into my room and hugged and kissed me, and we had walked down to breakfast arm-in-arm. She must have been very, very angry to omit that ceremony!

I took a long time to dress, for I wanted Wallace to be safely started on his rounds before appearing downstairs, and at last, just as I was feeling that I could not respectably linger another moment, the door opened, and there, at last, stood Lorna.

She had been crying dreadfully. I could see that at a glance, for the eyelids were swollen and puffy, just as they used to be the first morning after our return to school. Mine were swollen, too, and we stood staring miserably at each other, but not approaching a step nearer, until at last she said coldly--

"Mother sent me upstairs to ask if you would prefer to have your breakfast in bed. She thought you were not up."

"Oh, yes, I have been waiting. Lorna, don't look at me like that!" I cried desperately. "I'm miserable too, and you ought not to turn against me--you are my friend."

"Wallace is my brother," said Lorna simply. Her lip quivered. "I sat up with him until four o'clock this morning. He has always been such a happy, cheerful boy. I did not know he could be so miserable. If you could have seen and heard him talk, you would have felt broken-hearted for him--even you!"

"Even you!" I repeated reproachfully. "Am I a monster, Lorna, that you talk to me like that? Can't you understand that I feel a hundred times worse than you can possibly do? I never, never thought that when I was in trouble you would be the first person to turn against me."

"Neither did I. I have been too fond of you, Una. I admired you so much, and was so proud of having you for my friend that I have been unjust to other people for your sake. I often took your part at school when I knew you were in the wrong, simply because I was afraid of making you angry. It was cowardly of me, and this is my reward! Oh, Una, you say you are sorry, but you knew it was coming! You are too clever not to have seen it long ago. If it had been another man I should have spoken out, but a brother is almost like oneself, so one can't interfere. But I hinted--you know I hinted, Una--and I saw by your face that you understood. If you didn't care for him, why didn't you go home when it was first arranged? We all took it as a good sign when you agreed to stay on, and Wallace was so happy about it. Poor boy! He will never be happy again. He says he will go abroad, and father has been looking forward all these years to his help. It will break his heart if he loses Wallace!"

Everyone was broken-hearted, it seemed, and they all blamed me, and said it was my fault. I felt inclined to jump out of the window, and put an end to it at once. I did turn towards it, and I must have looked pretty desperate, for Lorna came forward quickly, and took hold of me by the arm.

"Come down and talk to mother. She is all alone, and she is old and will understand better than I do. Oh, Una, I shall always love you! I shan't be able to help it, whatever you have done. I didn't mean to be unkind, but I am--so--miserable!"

I gripped her hand, but couldn't speak; we were both struggling not to cry all the way downstairs, and I couldn't eat any breakfast; I felt as if I could never eat again. Mrs Forbes came into the room just as I left the table, and Lorna went out at once, as if by a previous arrangement. It was awful! Mrs Forbes looked so old and ill and worried, and she was so kind. I could have borne it better if she had been cross to me.

"Sit down, dear. Come close to the fire, your hands feel cold," she said, pushing me gently into an easy chair, and poking the coals into a blaze. "You and I want a little talk to each other, I think, and we shall be quite uninterrupted here. My poor boy has told me of his disappointment, but, indeed, he did not need to tell me. I could see what had happened by his face. I am very disappointed, too. I thought he would have very different news to tell me, and I should have been very happy to welcome you as a daughter. We have known you by name for so many years that you did not seem like a stranger even when you first arrived, and we have been very happy together these five weeks--"

"Oh, very happy! I have had a lovely time. I shall never forget how happy I have been."

She looked at me anxiously, her eyebrows knitted together.

"Then if you have been so happy, I do not see why-- Let us speak out, dear, and understand each other thoroughly. My boy and I have always been close friends, and if I am to be of help or comfort to him now I must understand how this trouble has come about. Wallace is not conceited--he has a very modest estimation of his own merits, but he seems to have expected a different answer. Sometimes in these affairs young people misunderstand each other, and little sorenesses arise, which a few outspoken words can smooth away. If I could act as peacemaker between you two, I should be very thankful. My children's happiness is my first consideration nowadays. If there is anything I can do, just tell me honestly. Speak out as you would to your own mother."

But I had nothing to tell. I shook my head, and faltered nervously--

"No, there is nothing--we have had no quarrels. I like Wallace very much, oh, very much indeed, but not--I could never--I couldn't be anything more than his friend."

"Is there then someone else whom you care for?"

There were several people, but I couldn't exactly say so to her--it seemed so rude. Wallace was a nice, kind boy, but he couldn't compare for interest with--Jim Carstairs, for instance, dear, silent, loyal, patient Jim, who gives all, and asks nothing in return, or even jolly little Mr Nash, who is always happy and smiling, and trying to make other people happy. I like them both better than Wallace, to say nothing of-- And then a picture rose before me of a tall, lean figure dressed in a tweed shooting-suit, of a sunburnt face, out of which looked blue eyes, which at one moment would twinkle with laughter, and at the next grow stern and grave and cold. They could soften, too, and look wonderfully tender. I had seen them like that just once or twice when he looked at me, and said, "Una!" and at the remembrance, for some stupid reason the blood rushed to my face, and there I sat blushing, blushing, blushing, until my very ears tingled with heat.

I said nothing, and Mrs Forbes said nothing, but looking up at the end of a horrid silence, I saw that her face had entirely changed in expression since I had seen it last. All the softness had left it; she looked the image of wounded dignity.

"I understand! There is nothing more to say, then, except that if you were so very sure of your own feelings, I cannot understand how it is that you have allowed the matter to get this length. I am thankful to know that my boy's principles are strong enough to prevent his disappointment doing him any real harm. It might have been very different with many young men. At the best it is a hard thing for us to see his young life clouded, and you will understand that it is our duty to protect him from further suffering. You will not think me inhospitable if I suggest that your visit had better come to an end at once."