ered himself of his pretensions and wishes to the colonel, and was
referred to Cecilia; but Colonel Halkett declined to send for her.
Beauchamp declined to postpone his proposal until the following day. He
went outside the house and walked up and down the grass-plot.

Cecilia came to him at last.

'I hear, Nevil, that you are waiting to speak to me.'

'I've been waiting some weeks. Shall I speak here?'

'Yes, here, quickly.'

'Before the house? I have come to ask you for your hand.'

'Mine? I cannot . . .'

'Step into the park with me. I ask you to marry me.'

'It is too late.'

CHAPTER XLVII

THE REFUSAL OF HIM

Passing from one scene of excitement to another, Cecilia was perfectly
steeled for her bitter task; and having done that which separated her a
sphere's distance from Beauchamp, she was cold, inaccessible to the face
of him who had swayed her on flood and ebb so long, incapable of tender
pity, even for herself. All she could feel was a harsh joy to have struck
off her tyrant's fetters, with a determination to cherish it passionately
lest she should presently be hating herself: for the shadow of such a
possibility fell within the narrow circle of her strung sensations. But
for the moment her delusion reached to the idea that she had escaped from
him into freedom, when she said, 'It is too late.' Those words were the
sum and voice of her long term of endurance. She said them hurriedly,
almost in a whisper, in the manner of one changeing a theme of
conversation for subjects happier and livelier, though none followed.

The silence bore back on her a suspicion of a faint reproachfulness in
the words; and perhaps they carried a poetical tone, still more
distasteful.

'You have been listening to tales of me,' said Beauchamp.

'Nevil, we can always be friends, the best of friends.'

'Were you astonished at my asking you for your hand? You said "mine?" as
if you wondered. You have known my feelings for you. Can you deny that? I
have reckoned on yours--too long?--But not falsely? No, hear me out. The
truth is, I cannot lose you. And don't look so resolute. Overlook little
wounds: I was never indifferent to you. How could I be--with eyes in my
head? The colonel is opposed to me of course: he will learn to understand
me better: but you and I! we cannot be mere friends. It's like daylight
blotted out--or the eyes gone blind:--Too late? Can you repeat it? I
tried to warn you before you left England: I