He took her by both her hands, and kissed her forehead. At that moment Aunt Sarah was not in the room.
“I am so very, very happy,” she said, pressing her little hands against his.
Why should he not kiss her? Was he not her brother? And then, before he went, she remembered she had something special to tell him;—something to ask him. Would he not walk with her that evening? Of course he would walk with her.
“Mary, dear,” said her aunt, putting her little arm round her niece’s waist, and embracing her, “don’t fall in love with Walter.”
“How can you say anything so foolish, Aunt Sarah?”
“It would be very foolish to do so.”
“You don’t understand how completely different it is. Do you think I could be so intimate with him as I am if anything of the kind were possible?”
“I do not know how that may be.”
“Do not begrudge it me because I have found a cousin that I can love almost as I would a brother. There has never been anybody yet for whom I could have that sort of feeling.”
Aunt Sarah, whatever she might think, had not the heart to repeat her caution; and Mary, quite happy and contented with herself, put on her hat to run down the hill and meet her cousin at the great gates of the Lowtown Rectory. Why should he be dragged up the hill, to escort a cousin down again? This arrangement had, therefore, been made between them.
For the first mile or two the talk was all about Messrs. Block and Curling and the money. Captain Marrable was so full of his own purposes, and so well contented that so much should be saved to him out of the fortune he had lost, that he had, perhaps, forgotten that Mary required more advice. But when they had come to the spot on which they had before sat, she bade him stop and seat himself.
“And now what is it?” he said, as he rolled himself comfortably close to her side. She told her story, and explained her doubts, and asked for the revelations of his wisdom. “Are you quite sure about the propriety of this, Mary?” he said.
“The propriety of what, Walter?”
“Giving up a man who loves you so well, and who has so much to offer?”
“What was it you said yourself? Sure! Of course I am sure. I am quite sure. I do not love him. Did I not tell you that there could be no doubt after what you said?”
“I did not mean that my words should be so powerful.”
“They were powerful; but, independently of that, I am quite sure now. If I could do it myself, I should be false to him. I know that I do not love him.” He was not looking at her where he was lying, but was playing with a cigar-case which he had taken out, as though he were about to resume his smoking. But he did not open the case, or look towards her, or say a word to her. Two minutes had perhaps passed before she spoke again. “I suppose it would be best that I should write to him at once?”
“There is no one else, then, you care for, Mary?” he asked.
“No one,” she said, as though the question were nothing.
“It is all blank paper with you?”
“Quite blank,” she said, and laughed. “Do you know, I almost think it always will be blank.”
“By G⸺! it is not blank with me,” he said, springing up and jumping to his feet. She stared at him, not in the least understanding what he meant, not dreaming even that he was about to tell her his love secrets in reference to another. “I wonder what you think I’m made of, Mary;—whether you imagine I have any affection to bestow?”
“I do not in the least understand.”
“Look here, dear,” and he knelt down beside her as he spoke, “it is simply this, that you have become to me more than all the world;—that I love you better than my own soul;—that your beauty and sweetness, and soft, darling touch, are everything to me. And then you come to me for advice! I can only give you one bit of advice now, Mary.”
“And what is that?”
“Love me.”
“I do love you.”
“Ay, but love me and be my wife.”
She had to think of it; but she knew from the first moment that the thinking of it was a delight to her. She did not quite understand at first that her chosen brother might become her lover, with no other feeling than that of joy and triumph; and yet there was a consciousness that no other answer but one was possible. In the first place, to refuse him anything, asked in love, would be impossible. She could not say No to him. She had struggled often in reference to Mr. Gilmore, and had found it impossible to say Yes. There was now the same sort of impossibility in regard to the No. She couldn’t blacken herself with such a lie. And yet, though she was sure of this, she was so astounded by his declaration, so carried off her legs by the alteration in her position, so hard at work within herself with her new endeavour to change the aspect in which she must look at the man, that she could not even bring herself to think of answering him. If he would only sit down near her for awhile—very near—and not speak to her, she thought that she would be happy. Everything else was forgotten. Aunt Sarah’s caution, Janet Fenwick’s anger, poor Gilmore’s sorrow—of all these she thought not at all, or only allowed her mind to dwell on them as surrounding trifles, of which it would be necessary that she, that they—they two who were now all in all to each other—must dispose; as they must, also, of questions of income, and suchlike little things. She was without a doubt. The man was her master, and had her
