Part 56 (1/2)

John was trying to speak in a very matter-of-fact way, as merely laying down his views.

”Equally advantageous,” he said at last; and not without difficulty.

”John,” said Emily, rallying a little, and speaking with the least little touch of audacity,--”John, you are always fond of advancing your abstract theories. Now, I should have thought that if a man had felt any want in his first marriage, he would have tried for something more in a second, rather than have determined that there was no more to be had.”

”Unless his reason a.s.sured him in more sober hours that he had had all, and given all that could in reason be expected,” John answered. ”I did not confess to having felt any want,” he presently added. ”Call this, since it pleases you, my abstract theory.”

And then Emily felt that she too must speak; her dead husband deserved it of her far more than his dead wife had ever done.

”I do please,” she answered; ”this can be only an abstract theory to me.

I knew no want of love in my marriage, only a frequent self-reproach--to think that I was unworthy, because I could not enough return it.”

”A most needless self-reproach,” he answered. ”I venture to hope that people should never rebuke themselves because they happen to be incapable of romantic pa.s.sion, or any of the follies of youthful love.”

”Intended to restore my self-esteem. Shall I not soon be able to make you feel differently?” thought Emily. ”You still remember Janie; you will never let her be disparaged. I think none the worse of you for that, my beloved--my hope.”

He was silent till she glanced up at him again, with a sweet wistfulness, that was rather frequent with her; turning half round--for he stood at her side, not quite enough at his ease to look continually in her face--he was much surprised to find her so charming, so naive in all her movements, and in the flitting expressions of her face.

He was pleased, too, though very much surprised, to find that she did not seem conscious of his intention (a most lovely blush had spread itself over her face when she spoke of her husband), but so far from expecting what he was just about to say, she had thrown him back in his progress more than once--she did not seem to be expecting anything. ”And yet, I have said a good deal,” he reflected; ”I have let her know that I expect to inspire no romantic love, and do not pretend to be in love with her. I come forward admiring, trusting, and preferring her to any other woman; though I cannot come as a lover to her feet.” He began to talk again. Emily was a little startled to find him in a few minutes alluding to his domestic discomforts, and his intention of standing for the borough. He had now a little red box in his hand, and when she said, ”John, I wish you would not stand there,” he came and sat nearly opposite to her, and showed her what was in it--his father's diamond ring. She remembered it, no doubt; he had just had the diamond reset.

Emily took out the ring, and laid it in her palm. ”It looks small,” she said. ”I should not have thought it would fit you, John.”

”Will you let me try if it will fit you?” he answered; and, before she had recovered from her surprise, he had put it on her finger.

There was a very awkward pause, and then she drew it off. ”You can hardly expect me,” she said, and her hand trembled a little, ”to accept such a very costly present.” It was not her reason for returning it, but she knew not what to say.

”I would not ask it,” he replied, ”unless I could offer you another. I desire to make you my wife. I beg you to accept my hand.”

”Accept your hand! What, now? directly? today?” she exclaimed almost piteously, and tears trembled on her eye-lashes.

”Yes,” he answered, repeating her words with something like ardour.

”Now, directly, to-day. I am sorely in want of a wife, and would fain take you home as soon as the bans would let me. Emily?”

”Why you have been taking all possible pains to let me know that you do not love me in the least, and that, as far as you foresee, you do not mean to love me,” she answered, two great tears falling on his hand when he tried to take hers. ”John! how dare you!”

She was not naturally pa.s.sionate, but startled now into this pa.s.sionate appeal, she s.n.a.t.c.hed away her hand, rose in haste, and drew back from him with flas.h.i.+ng eyes and a heaving bosom; but all too soon the short relief she had found in anger was quenched in tears that she did not try to check. She stood and wept, and he, very pale and very much discomfited, sat before her in his place.

”I beg your pardon,” he presently said, not in the least aware of what this really meant. ”I beg--I entreat your pardon. I scarcely thought--forgive my saying it--I scarcely thought, considering our past--and--and--my position, as the father of a large family, that you would have consented to any wooing in the girl and boy fas.h.i.+on. You make me wish, for once in my life--yes, very-heartily wish, that I had been less direct, less candid,” he added rather bitterly. ”I thought”--here Emily heard him call himself a fool--”I thought you would approve it.”

”I do,” she answered with a great sobbing sigh. Oh, there was nothing more for her to say; she could not entreat him now to let her teach him to love her. She felt, with a sinking heart, that if he took her words for a refusal, and by no means a gentle one, it could not be wondered at.

Presently he said, still looking amazed and pale, for he was utterly unused to a woman's tears, and as much agitated now in a man's fas.h.i.+on as she was in hers,

”If I have spoken earlier in your widowhood than you approve, and it displeases you, I hope you will believe that I have always thought of you as a wife to be admired above any that I ever knew.”

”My husband loved me,” she answered, drying her eyes, now almost calmly.

She could not say she was displeased on his account, and when she looked up she saw that John Mortimer had his hat in his hand. Their interview was nearly over.

”I cannot lose you as a friend,” he said, and his voice faltered.

”Oh no; no, dear John.”