“I sometimes think you talk so well that I ought to be persuaded;—but I can’t. It is not lack of talking.”
“What is it, then?”
“Just this;—my heart does not turn itself that way. It is the same chance that has made you—partial to me.”
“Partial! Why, I love the very air you breathe. When I am near you, everything smells sweet. There isn’t anything that belongs to you but I think I should know it, though I found it a hundred miles away. To have you in the room with me would be like heaven—if I only knew that you were thinking kindly of me.”
“I always think kindly of you, Larry.”
“Then say that you will be my wife.” She paused, and became red up to the roots of her hair. She seated herself on a chair, and then rose again—and again sat down. The struggle was going on within her, and he perceived something of the truth. “Say the word once, Mary;—say it but once.” And as he prayed to her he came forward and went down upon his knees.
“I cannot do it,” she replied at last, speaking very hoarsely, not looking at him, not even addressing herself to him.
“Mary!”
“Larry, I cannot do it. I have tried, but I cannot do it. O Larry, dear Larry, do not ask me again. Larry, I have no heart to give. Another man has it all.”
“Is it so?” She bowed her head in token of assent. “Is it that young parson?” exclaimed Larry, in anger.
“It is not. But, Larry, you must ask no questions now. I have told you my secret that all this might be set at rest. But if you are generous, as I know you are, you will keep my secret, and will ask no questions. And, Larry, if you are unhappy, so am I. If your heart is sore, so is mine. He knows nothing of my love, and cares nothing for me.”
“Then throw him aside.”
She smiled and shook her head. “Do you think I would not if I could? Why do you not throw me aside?”
“Oh, Mary!”
“Cannot I love as well as you? You are a man, and have the liberty to speak of it. Though I cannot return it, I can be proud of your love and feel grateful to you. I cannot tell mine. I cannot think of it without blushing. But I can feel it, and know it, and be as sure that it has trodden me down and got the better of me as you can. But you can go out into the world and teach yourself to forget.”
“I must go away from here then.”
“You have your business and your pleasures, your horses and your fields and your friends. I have nothing—but to remain here and know that I have disobliged all those that love me. Do you think, Larry, I would not go and be your wife if I could? I have told you all, Larry, and now do not ask me again.”
“Is it so?”
“Yes;—it is so.”
“Then I shall cut it all. I shall sell Chowton and go away. You tell me I have my horses and my pleasures! What pleasures? I know nothing of my horses—not whether they are lame or sound. I could not tell you of one of them whether he is fit to go tomorrow. Business! The place may farm itself for me, for I can’t stay there. Everything sickens me to look at it. Pleasures indeed!”
“Is that manly, Larry?”
“How can a man be manly when the manliness is knocked out of him? A man’s courage lies in his heart;—but if his heart is broken where will his courage be then? I couldn’t hold my head up here any more—and I shall go.”
“You must not do that,” she said, getting up and laying hold of his arm.
“But I must do it.”
“For my sake you must stay here, Larry;—so that I may not have to think that I have injured you so deeply. Larry, though I cannot be your wife I think I could die of sorrow if you were always unhappy. What is a poor girl that you should grieve for her in that way? I think if I were a man I would master my love better than that.” He shook his head and faintly strove to drag his arm from out of her grasp. “Promise me that you will take a year to think of it before you go.”
“Will you take a year to think of me?” said he, rising again to sudden hope.
“No, Larry, no. I should deceive you were I to say so. I deceived you before when I put it off for two months. But you can promise me without deceit. For my sake, Larry?” And she almost embraced him as she begged for his promise. “I know you would wish to spare me pain. Think what will be my sufferings if I hear that you have really gone from Chowton. You will promise me, Larry?”
“Promise what?”
“That the farm shall not be sold for twelve months.”
“Oh yes;—I’ll promise. I don’t care for the farm.”
“And stay there if you can. Don’t leave the place to strangers. And go about your business—and hunt—and be a man. I shall always be thinking of what you do. I shall always watch you. I shall always love you—always—always—always. I always have loved you;—because you are so good. But it is a different love. And now, Larry, goodbye.” So saying, she raised her face to look into his eyes. Then he suddenly put his arm round her waist, kissed her forehead, and left the room without another word.
Mrs. Masters saw him as he went, and must have known from his gait what was the nature of the answer he had received. But yet she went quickly upstairs to inquire. The matter was one of too much consequence for a mere inference. Mary had gone from the sitting-room, but her stepmother followed her upstairs to her bedchamber. “Mamma,” she
