Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 15 by Plots (and) Counterplots (v1.1)

warning
returned to her, bringing with it other memories of other mysterious looks,
hints, and acts which had transpired since Douglas came. These recollections
hardened her heart, confirmed her resolution, and gave her power to appear
inexorable to the last.
                 “You
mistake my motive, sir. Neither curiosity nor pique influenced me, but a just
and natural desire to assure myself that in trusting my happiness to your
keeping, I am not entailing regret upon myself, remorse upon you. I must know
all your past, before I endanger my future; clear yourself from the suspicions
which have long clung to you, and I am yours; remain silent, and we are nothing to each other from this day forth.”
                 Her
coldness chilled his passion, her distrust irritated his pride; all the old
hauteur returned fourfold, his eye grew hard, his voice bitter, and his whole
manner showed that his will was as inflexible as hers.
                 “Are
you resolved on making this unjust, ungenerous test of my affection, Miss
Stuart?”
                “I am.”
                 “You
have no faith in my honor, then? No consideration for the hard strait in which
my promise places me? No compassion for the loss I must sustain in losing the
love, respect, and confidence of the woman dearest to me?”
                 “Assure
me that you are worthy of love, respect, confidence, and I gladly accord them
to you.”
                 “I
cannot, in the way you demand. Will nothing else satisfy you?”
                 “Nothing!”
                 “Then,
in your words, we are nothing to one another from this day forth. Farewell,
Diana!”
                 With
an involuntary impulse, she put out her hand to detain him as he turned away.
He took it, and bending, kissed it, with a lingering fondness that nearly
conquered her. The act, the look that accompanied it, the tremor of the lips
that performed it, touched the poor girl’s heart, and words of free acceptance
were rising to her lips, when, as he bent, a miniature, suspended by a chain of
mingled hair and gold, swung forward from its hiding place in his breast, and
though she saw no face, the haste with which he replaced it roused all her
suspicions again, and redoubled all her doubts. Scorning herself for her
momentary weakness, the gesture of recall was changed to one of dismissal, as
she withdrew her hand, and turned from him, with a quiet “Farewell, then,
forever!”
                 “One
moment,” he pleaded. “Do not let us destroy the peace of both our lives by an
unhappy secret which in no way but this can do us harm. Bear with me for a few
days, Diana; think over this interview, remember my great love for you, let
your own generous nature appeal to your pride, and perhaps time may show you
that it is possible to love, trust, and pardon me.”
                 Glad
of any delay which should spare her the pain of an immediate separation, she
hesitated a moment, and then, with feigned reluctance, answered, “My visit was
to have ended with the coming week; I will not shorten it, but give you till
then to reconsider your decision, and by a full confession secure your
happiness and my own.”
                 Then
they parted—not with the lingering adieus of happy lovers, but coldly,
silently, like estranged friends—and each took a different way back, instead of
walking blissfully together, as they had thought to do.
                 “Why so triste, Diana? One would think you had seen a ghost
in the night, you look so pale and solemn. And, upon my word, Mr. Douglas looks
as if he had seen one also,” said Mrs. Berkeley, as they all gathered about the
breakfast table two hours later.
                 “I
did see one,” answered Douglas ,
generously distracting general attention from Diana, who could ill sustain it.