"I have nothing to say, Mr. Dillwyn,--that you would like to hear," she added, remembering that her first utterance was rather indefinite.
"You do not mean that?" he said hurriedly.
"Indeed I do."
"I know," he said, "you never say anything you do not mean. But _how_ do you mean it, Lois? Not to deny me? You do not mean _that?_"
"Yes," she said. And it was like putting a knife through her own heart when she said it. O, if she were at home! O, if she had never come on this drive! O, if she had never left Esterbrooke and those sick-beds!--But here she was, and must stand the question; and Mr.
Dillwyn had not done.
"What reason do you give me?"--and his voice grated now with pain.
"I gave none," said Lois faintly. "Don"t let us talk about it! It is no use. Don"t ask me anything more!"
"One question I must. I must know it. Do you dislike me, Lois?"
"Dislike? O no! how should I dislike you?" she answered. There was a little, very slight, vibration in her voice as she spoke, and her companion discerned it. When an instrument is very high strung, a quite soft touch will be felt and answered, and that touch swept all the strings of Mr. Dillwyn"s soul with music.
"If you do not dislike me, then," said he, "what is it? Do you, possibly _like_ me, Lois?"
Lois could not prevent a little hesitation before she answered, and that, too, Philip well noted.
"It makes no difference," she said desperately. "It isn"t that. Don"t let us talk any more about it! Mr. Dillwyn, the horses have been walking this great while, and we are a long way from home; won"t you drive on?"
He did drive on then, and for a while said not a word more. Lois was panting with eagerness to get home, and could not go fast enough; she would gladly have driven herself, only not quite such a fresh and gay pair of horses. They swept along towards a region that she could see from afar was thicker set with lights than the parts where they were.
Before they reached it, however, Mr. Dillwyn drew rein again, and made the horses walk gently.
"There is one question still I must ask," he said; "and to ask it, I must for a moment disobey your commands. Forgive me; but when the happiness of a whole life is at stake, a moment"s pain must be borne--and even inflicted--to make sure one is not suffering needlessly a far greater evil. Miss Lois, you never do anything without a reason; tell me your reason for refusing me. You thought I liked some one else; it is not that; I never have liked any one else. Now, what is it?"
"There is no use in talking," Lois murmured. "It is only pain."
"Necessary pain," said he firmly. "It is right I should know, and it must be possible for you to tell me. Say that it is because you cannot like me well enough--and I shall understand that."
But Lois could not say it; and the pause, which embarra.s.sed her terribly, had naturally a different effect upon her companion.
"It is _not_ that!" he cried. "Have you been led to believe something false about me, Lois?--Lois?"
"No," she said, trembling; the pain, and the difficulty of speaking, and the struggle it cost, set her absolutely to trembling. "No, it is something _true_." She spoke faintly, but he listened well.
"_True!_ What is it? It is not true. What do you mean, dear?"
The several things which came with the intonations of this last question overset the remnant of Lois"s composure. She burst into tears; and he was looking, and the moonlight was full in her face, and he could not but see it.
"I cannot help it," she cried; "and you cannot help it. It is no use to talk about it. You know--O, you know--you are not a Christian!"
It was almost a cry at last with which she said it; and the usually self-contained Lois hid her face away from him. Whether the horses walked or trotted for a little while she did not know; and I think it was only mechanical, the effort by which their driver kept them at a foot pace. He waited, however, till Lois dropped her hands again, and he thought she would attend to him.
"May I ask," he then said, and his voice was curiously clear and composed,--"if that is your _only_ objection to me?"
"It is enough!" said Lois smotheredly, and noticing at the same time that ring in his voice.
"You think, one who is a Christian ought never to marry another who is not a Christian?"
"No!" she said, in the same way, as if catching her breath.
"It is very often done."
She made no reply. This was a most cruel discussion, she thought. Would they never reach home? And the horses walking! Walking, and shaking their heads, with soft little peals of the bells, like creatures who had at last got quiet enough to like walking.
"Is that all, Lois?" he asked again; and the tone of his voice irritated her.
"There need not be anything more," she answered. "That is enough. It is a barrier for ever between us; you cannot overcome it--and I cannot. O, do make the horses go! we shall never get home! and don"t talk any more."
"I will let the horses go presently; but first I must talk a little more, because there is something that must be said. That _was_ a barrier, a while ago; but it is not now. There is no need for either of us to overcome it or try to overcome it, for it does not exist. Lois, do you hear me? It does not exist."
"I do not understand," she said, in a dazed kind of way, turning towards him. "What does not exist?"
"That barrier--or any barrier--between you and me."
"Yes, it does. It _is_ a barrier. I promised my dear grandmother--and if I had not promised her, it would be just the same, for I have promised to obey G.o.d; and he forbids it."
"Forbids what?"
"Forbids me, a Christian, to have anything to do with you, who are not a Christian. I mean, in that way."
"But, Lois--I am a Christian too."
"You?" she said, turning towards him.
"Yes."
"What sort of a one?"
Philip could not help laughing at the nave question, which, however, he perfectly understood.
"Not an old one," he said; "and not a good one; and yet, Lois, truly an honest one. As you mean the word. One whose King Christ is, as he is yours; and who trusts in him with the whole heart, as you do."
"You a Christian!" exclaimed Lois now, in the greatest astonishment.
"When did it happen?"
He laughed again. "A fair question. Well, it came about last summer.
You recollect our talk one Sunday in the rain?"
"O yes!"--
"That set me to thinking; and the more I saw of you,--yes, and of Mrs.
Armadale,--and the more I heard of you from Mrs. Barclay, the more the conviction forced itself upon my mind, that I was living, and had always lived, a fool"s life. That was a conclusion easily reached; but how to become wise was another matter. I resolved to give myself to the study till I had found the answer; and that I might do it uninterruptedly, I betook myself to the wilds of Canada, with not much baggage beside my gun and my Bible. I hunted and fished; but I studied more than I did either. I took time for it too. I was longing to see you; but I resolved this subject should be disposed of first. And I gave myself to it, until it was all clear to me. And then I made open profession of my belief, and took service as one of Christ"s declared servants. That was in Montreal."
"In Montreal!"