"I shall never be impatient,--never," she said to him on the last
evening. "All I want is that you should write to me."
"I shall want more than that, Mary."
"Then you must come down and see me. When you do come they will be
happy, happy days for me. But of course we cannot be married for the
next twenty years."
"Say forty, Mary."
"I will say anything that you like;--you will know what I mean just
as well. And, Phineas, I must tell you one thing,--though it makes me
sad to think of it, and will make me sad to speak of it."
"I will not have you sad on our last night, Mary."
"I must say it. I am beginning to understand how much you have given
up for me."
"I have given up nothing for you."
"If I had not been at Killaloe when Mr. Monk was here, and if we had
not,--had not,--oh dear, if I had not loved you so very much, you
might have remained in London, and that lady would have been your
wife."
"Never!" said Phineas stoutly.
"Would she not? She must not be your wife now, Phineas. I am not
going to pretend that I will give you up."
"That is unkind, Mary."
"Oh, well; you may say what you please. If that is unkind, I am
unkind. It would kill me to lose you."
Had he done right? How could there be a doubt about it? How could
there be a question about it? Which of them had loved him, or was
capable of loving him as Mary loved him? What girl was ever so sweet,
so gracious, so angelic, as his own Mary? He swore to her that he was
prouder of winning her than of anything he had ever done in all his
life, and that of all the treasures that had ever come in his way she
was the most precious.
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