CHAPTER XXII.

AYLESFORD AND KATE

Helen I love thee; by my life I do: I swear by that which I will love for thee, To prove him false that says I love thee not. —Shakespeare.

I cannot love him, He might have took his answer long ago. —Shakespeare.

I’ll have my bond, I will not hear thee speak. I’ll have my bond. —Shakespeare.

Though Kate could not think, without aversion, of ratifying the family contract to marry her cousin, yet she commiserated his disappointment, and was consequently more tender to his feelings than she would otherwise have been.

These sentiments had governed her during the interview at the bridge. No true woman takes pleasure in the suffering of an unfortunate lover. Kate had, on that occasion, thought more of her cousin’s disappointment than of Major Gordon. But, when she had reached Sweetwater, and was left to solitary thought in the privacy of her chamber, she saw that, in trying to save the feelings of Aylesford, she had hurt those of her preserver. Her momentary anger at the latter’s coldness gradually subsided, and when she met him, on the following day, she returned his bow, as we have seen, with all her old cordiality.

Kate was sitting alone in the parlor, to which we have already introduced the reader, on Monday morning, when her cousin entered the apartment. Something in his manner betrayed to her that he sought a private interview. Her heart began to beat fast.

Aylesford, for a minute or two, did not speak. He walked, in an embarrassed way, to the window; looked out a moment, glanced at Kate, and then tattooed on the panes with his fingers; and, finally, turning abruptly towards her, said—

“How is it, Kate, that you have compromised the family, by permitting this Major Gordon to visit here so frequently? His rebel commission surely ought to shut your doors against him.”

Kate’s color, which had been heightened ever since Aylesford entered, flushed to a still deeper crimson at these words. But, having determined, while remaining firm to her purpose, to do everything else to conciliate her cousin, she paused awhile before replying, in order to command voice and judgment alike.

“I do not see, Charles,” she said, finally, “that I have compromised the family. Major Gordon, though not a royalist, is a gentleman, and entitled to the civilities due to all such. In addition,” she added, with another blush, “he deserves particular attention at our hands; you yourself must admit this.”

“I don’t admit any such thing,” answered her cousin, nettled alike by her quiet manner and by her words. “He helped to save your life, I know; but so would any other person in his place. I myself,” he added, with an outburst of really natural feeling, “would have given my right hand to have been there, and risked my life also for you.”

Kate was touched.

“I believe you,” she said, with a voice full of feeling.

To do him justice, Aylesford loved her with all the passion of his illy regulated nature, and when he heard this reply, and saw Kate’s emotion, what was good in him awoke responsive to it. He fell upon his knee, by a sudden impulse, and seizing her hand, said—

“Then why won’t you believe still more, dear Kate? Why won’t you believe that I am the most sincere and devoted lover ever woman had? That I have been taught, from my youth up, to look upon you as my future wife? That all my associations of home and happiness have centred around you? Oh! Kate,” he cried, as she withdrew her hand and shook her head sadly, “have pity on me. Don’t let your heart be estranged from your own blood and kin, merely because a stranger has done that which I would have died a thousand times to do.”

Kate shook her head again mournfully. “It is not that,” she faltered.

“Then what is it? I implore you to tell me. By the memory of our fathers, who loved each other so well, what is it that makes you cold to me, and to me only?”

Kate had been struggling for composure to reply. Deeply moved, she said—

“Rise, Charles. This is no attitude for you to assume, nor for me to allow.”

Her manner was firm, though gentle, and Aylesford rose and stood before her.

“I cannot listen to such language,” she began. “I must be truthful, even if I speak words that may seem harsh; and I do not love you, Charles—”

He clasped his forehead violently with both hands.

“Yet what have I done,” he cried, after a moment, like one beside himself, “to win this hatred? Oh! never man loved as I love you, Kate.”

“I do not hate you, Charles,” was Kate’s mild reply. “You are my cousin, and the last male representative of our family, and therefore have a double claim on me. I like you as a relative, though I see much,” she added, hesitatingly, “to condemn. But to be your wife is impossible. It would bring happiness to neither of us. And knowing that it would not bring happiness,” she added, in a firmer tone, “it would be a sin in us to contract it. Otherwise, perhaps,” and here her voice trembled, “I might have ratified the wishes of our parents; which, but for this incompatibility between us, I should feel bound to obey.”

Aylesford, whose angry sense of humiliation had been gradually rising, was subdued again by these last words, for he thought Kate was relenting. He, therefore, answered eagerly—

“There is no incompatibility. Or,” for she shook her head, “there shall be none. Only try me. I will be anything you wish. We have been apart so long, that perhaps we do differ in some things; but I place myself in your hands; mould me as you will.”

His impassioned manner left no doubt on his hearer’s mind that he was sincere, at least for the time; but Kate well knew that natures like his were past reforming; and she could not, therefore, permit herself to be misled by these earnest protestations. The interview was becoming too painful, and she rose to terminate it.

“Don’t talk in that way, Charles,” she said, with tears in her eyes. “Please don’t,” she added, placing her hand restrainingly on his arm, as she saw he was about to renew his pleadings. “My decision is final. The heart cannot be forced.”

There was no mistaking the sincerity of this avowal. It left no room for hope. Her manner also confirmed her words. As Aylesford seized her dress to detain her, when she would now have left the room, she gently but resolutely removed his hold.

The ill-regulated nature of her cousin passed, in a moment, from entreaty to rage. He was like one of those volcanic countries, where suddenly, on a clear day, the heavens are filled with smoke and the solid ground shaken with earthquakes.

“Then you love this Major Gordon,” he cried, livid with suppressed passion. “You have lost your heart, like a romantic fool, to a rebel beggar, merely because he happened to be present when you escaped from shipwreck. Yes! go,” he added, bitterly, as Kate, with dignity, was proceeding towards the door, “but know that I will go to him, and force down his throat a disavowal of his suit to you.”

This threat checked Kate’s steps. The scandal of an encounter between her cousin and her preserver, apart from her well-founded dread of the former’s skill at fence, induced her to stop, with the hope of preventing this mad threat from being executed.

“You will do no such thing,” she said, fronting Aylesford with decision, yet with something of entreaty too in her manner. “You will not, you cannot, so disgrace her whom, but a moment ago, you professed to love. Nay, Charles,” she continued, as he was turning away, and advancing quickly she caught him by the arm, “you must promise me this. I demand it as a woman, as a relative,” and seeing he was still unmoved, she added, with spirit— “the honor of our family is concerned, that a gentleman who preserved my life should not be so grossly insulted; and I call on you, as my nearest male connexion, to sustain that honor.”

But Aylesford still turned from her with gloomy rage. As she still continued to hold fast to him, he finally shook her off roughly, saying—

“It is you who dishonor the family, by loving this base-born adventurer.”

“Oh! Charles,” she cried, reproachfully, with a burst of feeling, “I had not expected this of you.”

He turned on the instant. Again he thought she might be induced to relent.

“Promise me,” he said, eagerly, “that you will listen to my suit. Only promise me a probation, I ask nothing more. I will then do anything you wish.”

She shook her head sadly, but firmly.

“Then it’s no use deceiving me,” was the angry answer, as he flung off the hand which he had taken.

“You love this low fellow, this cowardly traitor—”

“Stop,” said Kate, with an air of command, her person seeming actually to dilate before her companion’s eyes. “I will not hear a gentleman maligned to whom we all owe so much. Nay!” she continued, almost sternly, as Aylesford attempted to speak, “I will be heard, and once for all. You forget yourself, and trespass on even the privileges of a relation, when you charge me with loving Major Gordon. You grossly insult me, when you say that I could love any man merely because he saved my life. Moreover,” she added, with something of haughty scorn in her manner, “if you will seek this gentleman’s blood, you may find to your cost that he is anything but a coward. As for me,” and her eyes sparkled with determination, “I shall take good care that Major Gordon knows that I have no share in this dishonorable requital.”

With these words she swept from the room like an empress, not condescending to pursue the altercation further.

Aylesford, with an oath, saw the door close after her, when, hastily arming himself, he ordered his horse saddled and went forth to provoke the duel which we have seen so opportunely interrupted.