“Patty,” he said at last. “By the heavens above us you shall answer me. Do you love me?”
She now stood still, and almost trembled as she looked up into his face. She stood opposite to him for a moment, and then placing her two hands on his shoulders, she answered him. “I do, I do, I do,” she said, “with all my heart; with all my heart—with all my heart and strength.” And then her head fell upon his breast.
Captain Broughton was almost as much surprised as delighted by the warmth of the acknowledgment made by the eager-hearted passionate girl whom he now held within his arms. She had said it now; the words had been spoken; and there was nothing for her but to swear to him over and over again with her sweetest oaths, that those words were true—true as her soul. And very sweet was the walk down from thence to the parsonage gate. He spoke no more of the distance of the ground, or the length of his day’s journey. But he stopped her at every turn that he might press her arm the closer to his own, that he might look into the brightness of her eyes, and prolong his hour of delight. There were no more gibes now on her tongue, no raillery at his London finery, no laughing comments on his coming and going. With downright honesty she told him everything: how she had loved him before her heart was warranted in such a passion; how, with much thinking, she had resolved that it would be unwise to take him at his first word, and had thought it better that he should return to London, and then think over it; how she had almost repented of her courage when she had feared, during those long summer days, that he would forget her; and how her heart had leapt for joy when her old friend had told her that he was coming.
“And yet,” said he, “you were not glad to see me!”
“Oh, was I not glad? You cannot understand the feelings of a girl who has lived secluded as I have done. Glad is no word for the joy I felt. But it was not seeing you that I cared for so much. It was the knowledge that you were near me once again. I almost wish now that I had not seen you till tomorrow.” But as she spoke she pressed his arm, and this caress gave the lie to her last words.
“No, do not come in tonight,” she said, when she reached the little wicket that led up to the parsonage. “Indeed, you shall not. I could not behave myself properly if you did.”
“But I don’t want you to behave properly.”
“Oh! I am to keep that for London, am I? But, nevertheless, Captain Broughton, I will not invite you either to tea or to supper tonight.”
“Surely I may shake hands with your father.”
“Not tonight—not till—John, I may tell him, may I not? I must tell him at once.”
“Certainly,” said he.
“And then you shall see him tomorrow. Let me see—at what hour shall I bid you come?”
“To breakfast.”
“No, indeed. What on earth would your aunt do with her broiled turkey and the cold pie? I have got no cold pie for you.”
“I hate cold pie.”
“What a pity! But, John, I should be forced to leave you directly after breakfast. Come down—come down at two, or three; and then I will go back with you to Aunt Penelope. I must see her tomorrow;” and so at last the matter was settled, and the happy Captain, as he left her, was hardly resisted in his attempt to press her lips to his own.
When she entered the parlour in which her father was sitting, there still were Gribbles and Poulter discussing some knotty point of Devon lore. So Patience took off her hat, and sat herself down, waiting till they should go. For full an hour she had to wait, and then Gribbles and Poulter did go. But it was not in such matters as this that Patience Woolsworthy was impatient. She could wait, and wait, and wait, curbing herself for weeks and months, while the thing waited for was in her eyes good; but she could not curb her hot thoughts or her hot words when things came to be discussed which she did not think to be good.
“Papa,” she said, when Gribbles’ long-drawn last word had been spoken at the door. “Do you remember how I asked you the other day what you would say if I were to leave you?”
“Yes, surely,” he replied, looking up at her in astonishment.
“I am going to leave you now,” she said. “Dear, dearest father, how am I to go from you?”
“Going to leave me,” said he, thinking of her visit to Helpholme, and thinking of nothing else.
Now, there had been a story about Helpholme. That bedridden old lady there had a stalwart son, who was now the owner of the Helpholme pastures. But though owner in fee of all those wild acres, and of the cattle which they supported, he was not much above the farmers around him, either in manners or education. He had his merits, however; for he was honest, well-to-do in the world, and modest withal. How strong love had grown up, springing from neighbourly kindness, between our Patience and his mother, it needs not here to tell; but rising from it had come another love—or an ambition which might have grown to love. The young man, after much thought, had not dared to speak to Miss Woolsworthy, but he had sent a message by Miss Le Smyrger. If there could be any hope for him, he would present himself as a suitor—on trial. He did not owe a shilling in the world, and had money by him—saved. He wouldn’t ask the parson for a shilling of fortune. Such had been the
