Sophia: A Romance

"Well, perhaps-in a year," she faltered. "Always supposing that you kiss no one in the meantime, sir."

"A year, a whole year, Betty!" Tom protested.

"Yes, a year, not a day less," she answered firmly. "You are only a boy. You don't know your own mind. I don't know yet whether you would treat me well. And for waiting, I'll have no one kiss me," Betty continued, steadfastly, "that cannot wait and wait, and doesn't think me worth the waiting. So, sir, if you wish to show that you are a man, you must show it by waiting."

"A year!" Tom moaned. "It's an age!"

"So it is to a boy," she retorted. "To a man it's a year. And as you don't wish to wait-"

"I will wait! I will indeed!" Tom cried.

"Remember you must kiss no one in the meantime," Betty continued, drawing patterns on the block, "nor write, nor speak, nor look a word of love. You will be on your honour, and-and you will wait till this day twelvemonth, sir."

"I will," Tom cried. "I will, and thankfully, if you on your side, Betty-"

She sprang up. "What?" she cried, on fire in an instant. "You would make terms with me, would you?"

Tom, the bold, the bully, cringed. "No," he said. "No, of course not. I beg your pardon, Betty."

She was silent for a full half minute, and he thought her hopelessly offended. But when she spoke again it was hurriedly, and in a tone of strange, new shyness. "Still, I-I don't ask what I won't give," she said. "You've kissed me, and you are not the same to me as-as others. I don't mind telling you that. And-and what is law for you shall be law for me. I suppose you understand," she added, her face naming more and more. And in her growing bashfulness she glanced at him angrily. "I never-I never have flirted, of course," she continued, despairing of making him understand; "but I-I won't flirt this year if you are in earnest."

Somehow Tom had got her hand, and was kissing it. And the two formed a pretty picture. But the time allowed them was short. Tom's ecstasy was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. Sir Hervey and Sophia had descended the steps of the terrace followed by the old vicar, who looked little the worse for his fainting-fit. He bore on his arm a new gown, the gift of his patron, and the token of his own favour, if not of his wife's forgiveness. The three were so closely engaged in talk that until they came face to face with the other pair they were not conscious of their presence. Then for a moment Sophia faltered and hung back, shamed and conscience-stricken, reminded of the things she had said, and the worse things she had thought, of her friend. But in a breath the two girls were in one another's arms.

Tom looked and groaned. "Oh, Lord!" he said. "A year! A whole year!"