I am an old woman now, but I have only to shut my eyes and it all
comes back on me--the dark carriage, the raindrops against the window
glancing in the light of the flambeaux, the crashing of the wheels,
and the steady breathing of the sleepers, while we two softly talked
on, and our hearts went out to one another, so that we knew our own
feelings for one another.
I think it came of talking of Eustace and his not being able to keep
back, that, though Eustace was in some sort the guiding star of his
life, yet what he had done for us was not merely for my brother's
sake, but for another much more unworthy, had he only known it.
Then he found he had betrayed himself, and asked my pardon, declaring
that he had only meant to watch me at a distance (poor me), knowing
well the vast gulf between our stations. What could I answer but
that this was only French nonsense; that we knew better in England
what a gentleman meant, and that I was sure that my brother would
freely and joyfully give me to him, poor, broken, ruined cavalier
exile as I was? And then we got hold of each other's hands, and he
called me all sorts of pretty names in French and in English; and I
felt myself the proudest and happiest maiden in France, or England to
boot, for was not mine the very noblest, most upright and
disinterested of hearts?
Only we agreed that it would be better to let no one at Paris know
what was between us until my brother should return.
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