He just saw that she was not angry; yes, he was so shy and humble that he could not see more; but that little glimpse of kindliness was enough to lure him forward.  On he went, hastily and stammeringly, like a man who has but a moment in which to speak, only a moment before some everlasting farewell.

“Oh, Miss Van Diemen!  Is there—­can there ever be—­any hope for me?”

It was one of the questions which arise out of great abysses from men who in their hopelessness still long for heaven.  No prisoner at the bar, faintly trusting that in the eyes of his judge he might find mercy, could be more anxious than was Thurstane at that moment.  The lover who does not yet know that he will be loved is a figure of tragedy.

CHAPTER XXII.

Although Thurstane did not perceive it, his question was answered the instant it was asked.  The answer started like lightning from Clara’s heart, trembled through all her veins, flamed in her cheeks, and sparkled in her eyes.

Such a moment of agitation and happiness she had never before known, and had never supposed that she could know.  It was altogether beyond her control.  She could have stopped her breathing ten times easier than she could have quelled her terror and her joy.  She was no more master of the power and direction of her feelings, than the river below was master of its speed and course.  One of the mightiest of the instincts which rule the human race had made her entirely its own.  She was not herself; she was Thurstane; she was love.  The love incarnate is itself, and not the person in whom it is embodied.

There was but one answer possible to Clara.  Somehow, either by look or word, she must say to Thurstane, “Yes.”  Prudential considerations might come afterward—­might come too late to be of use; no matter.  The only thing now to be done, the only thing which first or last must be done, the only thing which fate insisted should be done, was to say “Yes.”

It was said.  Never mind how.  Thurstane heard it and understood it.  Clara also heard it, as if it were not she who uttered it, but some overruling power, or some inward possession, which spoke for her.  She heard it and she acquiesced in it.  The matter was settled.  Her destiny had been pronounced.  The man to whom her heart belonged had his due.

Clara passed through a minute which was in some respects like a lifetime, and in some respects like a single second.  It was crowded and encumbered with emotions sufficient for years; it was the scholastic needle-point on which stood a multitude of angels.  It lasted, she could not say how long; and then of a sudden she could hardly remember it.  Hours afterwards she had not fully disentangled from this minute and yet monstrous labyrinth a clear recollection of what he had said and what she had answered.  Only the splendid exit of it was clear to her, and that was that she was his affianced wife.