“You are very good to me—more than good. Of course I know that. But, oh, Bernard! I did not expect this a bit.”
“But you will answer me, Bell! Or if you would like time to think, or to speak to my aunt, perhaps you will answer me tomorrow?”
“I think I ought to answer you now.”
“Not if it be a refusal, Bell. Think well of it before you do that. I should have told you that our uncle wishes this match, and that he will remove any difficulty there might be about money.”
“I do not care for money.”
“But, as you were saying about Lily, one has to be prudent. Now, in our marriage, everything of that kind would be well arranged. My uncle has promised me that he would at once allow us—”
“Stop, Bernard. You must not be led to suppose that any offer made by my uncle would help to purchase—Indeed, there can be no need for us to talk about money.”
“I wished to let you know the facts of the case, exactly as they are. And as to our uncle, I cannot but think that you would be glad, in such a matter, to have him on your side.”
“Yes, I should be glad to have him on my side; that is, if I were going—But my uncle’s wishes could not influence my decision. The fact is, Bernard—”
“Well, dearest, what is the fact?”
“I have always regarded you rather as a brother than as anything else.”
“But that regard may be changed.”
“No; I think not. Bernard, I will go further and speak on at once. It cannot be changed. I know myself well enough to say that with certainty. It cannot be changed.”
“You mean that you cannot love me?”
“Not as you would have me do. I do love you very dearly—very dearly, indeed. I would go to you in any trouble, exactly as I would go to a brother.”
“And must that be all, Bell?”
“Is not that all the sweetest love that can be felt? But you must not think me ungrateful, or proud. I know well that you are—are proposing to do for me much more than I deserve. Any girl might be proud of such an offer. But, dear Bernard—”
“Bell, before you give me a final answer, sleep upon this and talk it over with your mother. Of course you were unprepared, and I cannot expect that you should promise me so much without a moment’s consideration.”
“I was unprepared, and therefore I have not answered you as I should have done. But as it has gone so far, I cannot let you leave me in uncertainty. It is not necessary that I should keep you waiting. In this matter I do know my own mind. Dear Bernard, indeed, indeed it cannot be as you have proposed.”
She spoke in a low voice, and in a tone that had in it something of almost imploring humility; but, nevertheless, it conveyed to her cousin an assurance that she was in earnest; an assurance also that that earnest would not readily be changed. Was she not a Dale? And when did a Dale change his mind? For a while he sat silent by her; and she too, having declared her intention, refrained from further words. For some minutes they thus remained, looking down into the ha-ha. She still kept her old position, holding her hands clasped together over her knees; but he was now lying on his side, supporting his head upon his arm, with his face indeed turned towards her, but with his eyes fixed upon the grass. During this time, however, he was not idle. His cousin’s answer, though it had grieved him, had not come upon him as a blow stunning him for a moment, and rendering him unfit for instant thought. He was grieved, more grieved than he had thought he would have been. The thing that he had wanted moderately, he now wanted the more in that it was denied to him. But he was able to perceive the exact truth of his position, and to calculate what might be his chances if he went on with his suit, and what his advantage if he at once abandoned it.
“I do not wish to press you unfairly, Bell; but may I ask if any other preference—”
“There is no other preference,” she answered. And then again they were silent for a minute or two.
“My uncle will be much grieved at this,” he said at last.
“If that be all,” said Bell, “I do not think that we need either of us trouble ourselves. He can have no right to dispose of our hearts.”
“I understand the taunt, Bell.”
“Dear Bernard, there was no taunt. I intended none.”
“I need not speak of my own grief. You cannot but know how deep it must be. Why should I have submitted myself to this mortification had not my heart been concerned? But that I will bear, if I must bear it—” And then he paused, looking up at her.
“It will soon pass away,” she said.
“I will accept it at any rate without complaint. But as to my uncle’s feelings, it is open to me to speak, and to you, I should think, to listen without indifference. He has been kind to us both, and loves us two above any other living beings. It’s not surprising that he should wish to see us married, and it will not be surprising if your refusal should be a great blow to him.”
“I shall be sorry—very sorry.”
“I also shall be sorry. I am now speaking of him. He has set his heart upon it; and as he has but few wishes, few desires, so is he the more constant in those which he expresses. When he knows this, I fear that we shall find him very stern.”
“Then he will be unjust.”
“No; he will not be unjust. He is always a just man. But he will be unhappy, and will, I fear, make others unhappy. Dear Bell, may
