“You know.”
“But that will not do, I will have it in words. I will not be shorn of my delight.”
That it should be a delight to him, was the very essence of her heaven. “Tell me what to say,” she answered. “How may I say it best?”
“Reginald Morton,” he began.
“Reginald,” she repeated it after him, but went no farther in naming him.
“Because I love you better than any other being in the world—”
“I do.”
“Ah, but say it.”
“Because I love you, oh, so much better than all the world besides.”
“Therefore, my own, own husband—”
“Therefore, my own, own—” Then she paused.
“Say the word.”
“My own, own husband.”
“I will be your true wife.”
“I will be your own true loving wife.” Then he kissed her again.
“That,” he said, “is our little marriage ceremony under God’s sky, and no other can be more binding. As soon as you, in the plentitude of your maiden power, will fix a day for the other one, and when we can get that over, then we will begin our little journey together.”
“But Reginald!”
“Well, dear!”
“You haven’t said anything.”
“Haven’t I? I thought I had said it all.”
“But you haven’t said it for yourself!”
“You say what you want—and I’ll repeat it quite as well as you did.”
“I can’t do that. Say it yourself.”
“I will be your true husband for the rest of the journey;—by which I mean it to be understood that I take you into partnership on equal terms, but that I am to be allowed to manage the business just as I please.”
“Yes;—that you shall,” she said, quite in earnest.
“Only as you are practical and I am vague, I don’t doubt that everything will fall into your hands before five years are over, and that I shall have to be told whether I can afford to buy a new book, and when I am to ask all the gentry to dinner.”
“Now you are laughing at me because I shall know so little about anything.”
“Come, dear; let us get over the stile and go on for another field, or we shall never get round the park.” Then she jumped over after him, just touching his hand. “I was not laughing at you at all. I don’t in the least doubt that in a very little time you will know everything about everything.”
“I am so much afraid.”
“You needn’t be. I know you well enough for that. But suppose I had taken such a one as that young woman who was here with my poor cousin. Oh, heavens!”
“Perhaps you ought to have done so.”
“I thank the Lord that hath delivered me.”
“You ought—you ought to have chosen some lady of high standing,” said Mary, thinking with ineffable joy of the stately dame who was not to come to Bragton. “Do you know what I was thinking only the other day about it?—that you had gone up to London to look for some proper sort of person.”
“And how did you mean to receive her?”
“I shouldn’t have received her at all. I should have gone away. You can’t do it now.”
“Can’t I?”
“What were you thanking the Lord for so heartily?”
“For you.”
“Were you? That is the sweetest thing you have said yet. My own;—my darling;—my dearest! If only I can so live that you may be able to thank the Lord for me in years to come!”
I will not trouble the reader with all that was said at every stile. No doubt very much of what has been told was repeated again and again so that the walk round the park was abnormally long. At last, however, they reached the house, and as they entered the hall, Mary whispered to him, “Who is to tell your aunt?” she said.
“Come along,” he replied striding upstairs to his aunt’s bedroom, where he knew she would be at this time. He opened the door without any notice and, having waited till Mary had joined him, led her forcibly into the middle of the room. “Here she is,” he said;—“my wife elect.”
“Oh, Reginald!”
“We have managed it all, and there needn’t be any more said about it except to settle the day. Mary has been looking about the house and learning her duty already. She’ll be able to have every bedstead and every chair by heart, which is an advantage ladies seldom possess.” Then Mary rushed forward and was received into the old woman’s arms.
When Reginald left them, which he did very soon after the announcement was made, Lady Ushant had a great deal to say. “I have been thinking of it, my dear—oh—for years;—ever since he came to Hoppet Hall. But I am sure the best way is never to say anything. If I had interfered there is no knowing how it might have been.”
“Then, dear Lady Ushant, I am so glad you didn’t,” said Mary—being tolerably sure at the same time within her own bosom that her loving old friend could have done no harm in that direction.
“I wouldn’t say a word though I was always thinking of it. But then he is so odd, and no one can know what he means sometimes. That’s what made me think when Mr. Twentyman was so very pressing—”
“That couldn’t—couldn’t have been possible.”
“Poor young man!”
“But I always told him it was impossible.”
“I wonder whether you cared about Reginald all that time.” In answer to this Mary only hid her face in the old woman’s lap. “Dear me! I suppose you did all along. But I am sure it was better not to say anything, and now what will your papa
