“I will do anything within the limits of possibility, for you, Lizzie,” he answered with pleasant gaiety as he folded his arms. “See here! Napoleon Bonaparte at St. Helena.”
“When you spoke to me as I came from the Mill the night before last,” said Lizzie, fixing her eyes upon him with the look of supplication which troubled his better nature, “you told me that you were much surprised to see me, and that you were on a solitary fishing excursion. Was it true?”
“It was not,” replied Eugene composedly, “in the least true. I came here, because I had information that I should find you here.”
“Can you imagine why I left London, Mr. Wrayburn?”
“I am afraid, Lizzie,” he openly answered, “that you left London to get rid of me. It is not flattering to my self-love, but I am afraid you did.”
“I did.”
“How could you be so cruel?”
“O Mr. Wrayburn,” she answered, suddenly breaking into tears, “is the cruelty on my side! O Mr. Wrayburn, Mr. Wrayburn, is there no cruelty in your being here tonight!”
“In the name of all that’s good—and that is not conjuring you in my own name, for Heaven knows I am not good”—said Eugene, “don’t be distressed!”
“What else can I be, when I know the distance and the difference between us? What else can I be, when to tell me why you came here, is to put me to shame!” said Lizzie, covering her face.
He looked at her with a real sentiment of remorseful tenderness and pity. It was not strong enough to impell him to sacrifice himself and