“I think you are ungrateful, Bell.”

“No; I am not ungrateful.  And as to consulting, Bernard, I should be much more inclined to consult you than him about my marriage.  If you would let me look on you altogether as a brother, I should think little of promising to marry no one whom you did not approve.”

But such an agreement between them would by no means have suited Bernard’s views.  He had thought, some four or five weeks back, that he was not personally very anxious for this match.  He had declared to himself that he liked his cousin well enough; that it would be a good thing for him to settle himself; that his uncle was reasonable in his wishes and sufficiently liberal in his offers; and that, therefore, he would marry.  It had hardly occurred to him as probable that his cousin would reject so eligible an offer, and had certainly never occurred to him that he would have to suffer anything from such rejection.  He had entertained none of that feeling of which lovers speak when they declare that they are staking their all upon the hazard of a die.  It had not seemed to him that he was staking anything, as he gently told his tale of languid love, lying on the turf by the ha-ha.  He had not regarded the possibility of disappointment, of sorrow, and of a deeply-vexed mind.  He would have felt but little triumph if accepted, and had not thought that he could be humiliated by any rejection.  In this frame of mind he had gone to his work; but now he found, to his own surprise, that this girl’s answer had made him absolutely unhappy.  Having expressed a wish for this thing, the very expression of the wish made him long to possess it.  He found, as he rode along silently by her side, that he was capable of more earnestness of desire than he had known himself to possess.  He was at this moment unhappy, disappointed, anxious, distrustful of the future, and more intent on one special toy than he had ever been before, even as a boy.  He was vexed, and felt himself to be sore at heart.  He looked round at her, as she sat silent, quiet, and somewhat sad upon her pony, and declared to himself that she was very beautiful,—­that she was a thing to be gained if still there might be the possibility of gaining her.  He felt that he really loved her, and yet he was almost angry with himself for so feeling.  Why had he subjected himself to this numbing weakness?  His love had never given him any pleasure.  Indeed he had never hitherto acknowledged it; but now he was driven to do so on finding it to be the source of trouble and pain.  I think it is open to us to doubt whether, even yet, Bernard Dale was in love with his cousin; whether he was not rather in love with his own desire.  But against himself he found a verdict that he was in love, and was angry with himself and with all the world.

“Ah, Bell,” he said, coming close up to her, “I wish you could understand how I love you.”  And, as he spoke, his cousin unconsciously recognised more of affection in his tone, and less of that spirit of bargaining which had seemed to pervade all his former pleas, than she had ever found before.