indeed, had been
banished, but in which there had been nothing of agony. Then had
come upon the whole house at Heavitree the great Stanbury peril, and,
arising out of that, had sprung new hopes to Arabella, which made her
again capable of all the miseries of a foiled ambition. She could
again be patient, if patience might be of any service; but in such a
condition an eternity of patience is simply suicidal. She was willing
to work hard, but how could she work harder than she had worked. Poor
young woman,--perishing beneath an incubus which a false idea of
fashion had imposed on her!

"I hope I have said nothing that makes you unhappy," pleaded Mr.
Gibson. "I'm sure I haven't meant it."

"But you have," she said. "You make me very unhappy. You condemn me.
I see you do. And if I have done wrong it has been all because-- Oh
dear, oh dear, oh dear!"

"But who says you have done wrong?"

"You won't call me Bella,--because you say the little birds will hear
it. If I don't care for the little birds, why should you?"

There is no question more difficult than this for a gentleman to
answer. Circumstances do not often admit of its being asked by a lady
with that courageous simplicity which had come upon Miss French in
this moment of her agonising struggle; but nevertheless it is one
which, in a more complicated form, is often put, and to which some
reply, more or less complicated, is expected. "If I, a woman, can
dare, for your sake, to encounter the public tongue, will you, a man,
be afraid?" The true answer, if it could be given, would probably
be this; "I am afraid, though a man, because I have much to lose
and little to get. You are not afraid, though a woman, because you
have much to get and little to lose." But such an answer would be
uncivil, and is not often given. Therefore men shuffle and lie, and
tell themselves that in love,--love here being taken to mean all
antenuptial contests between man and woman,--everything is fair. Mr.
Gibson had the above answer in his mind, though he did not frame
it into words. He was neither sufficiently brave nor sufficiently
cruel to speak to her in such language. There was nothing for him,
therefore, but that he must shuffle and lie.

"I only meant," said he, "that I would not for worlds do anything to
make you uneasy."

She did not see how she could again revert to the subject of her own
Christian name. She had made her little tender, loving request, and
it had been refused.