For women such episodes
in the lives of their lovers have an excitement which is almost
pleasurable, whereas each man is anxious to hear his lady swear that
until he appeared upon the scene her heart had been fancy free. Mary,
upon the whole, had liked the story,--had thought that it had been
finely told, and was well pleased with the final catastrophe. But,
nevertheless, she was not prepared with her reply. "Have you no
answer to give me, Mary?" he said, looking up into her eyes. I am
afraid that he did not doubt what would be her answer,--as it would
be good that all lovers should do. "You must vouchsafe me some word,
Mary."
When she essayed to speak she found that she was dumb. She could not
get her voice to give her the assistance of a single word. She did
not cry, but there was a motion as of sobbing in her throat which
impeded all utterance. She was as happy as earth,--as heaven could
make her; but she did not know how to tell him that she was happy.
And yet she longed to tell it, that he might know how thankful she
was to him for his goodness. He still sat looking at her, and now by
degrees he had got her hand in his. "Mary," he said, "will you be my
wife,--my own wife?"
When half an hour had passed, they were still together, and now she
had found the use of her tongue.
Pages:
919
920
921
922
923
924
925
926
927
928
929
930
931
932
933
934
935
936
937
938
939
940
941
942
943