distant gate of the churchyard whooping and hallooing, to announce that the tea was all ready.
“Oh, Isabel!” cried George, “they are coming, and it maybe ever so long before I see you again alone. Isabel, dear Isabel! do tell me that you will make me happy—tell me that you will be my wife!”
He did not ask her if she loved him; he was too much in love with her—too entirely impressed with her grace and beauty, and his own inferiority—to tempt his fate by such a question. If she would marry him, and let him love her, and by-and-by reward his devotion by loving him a little, surely that would be enough to satisfy his most presumptuous wishes.
“Dear Isabel, you will marry me, won’t you? You can’t mean to say no,—you would have said it before now. You would not be so cruel as to let me hope, even for a minute, if you meant to disappoint me.”
“I have known you—you have known me—such a short time,” the girl murmured.
“But long enough to love you with a love that will last all my life,” George answered eagerly. “I shall have no thought except to make you happy, Isabel. I know that you are so beautiful that you ought to marry a very different fellow from me,—a man who could give you a grand house, and carriages and horses, and all that sort of thing; but he could never love you better than I, and he mightn’t love you as well, perhaps; and I’ll work for you, Isabel, as no man ever worked before. You shall never know what poverty is, darling, if you will be my wife.”
“I shouldn’t mind being poor,” Isabel answered, dreamily.
She was thinking that Walter Gay had been poor, and that the chief romance of Florence’s life had been the quiet wedding in the little City church, and the long sea voyage with her young husband. This sort of poverty was almost as nice as poor Edith’s miserable wealth, with diamonds flung about and trampled upon, and ruby velvet for every-day wear.
“I shouldn’t mind so much being poor,” repeated the girl; for she thought, if she didn’t marry a duke or a Dombey, it would be at least something to experience the sentimental phase of poverty.
George Gilbert seized upon the words.
“Ah, then, you will marry me, dearest Isabel? you will marry me, my own darling, my beautiful wife?”
He was almost startled by the intensity of his own feelings, as he bent down and kissed the little ungloved hand lying on the moss-grown stonework of the bridge.
“Oh, Isabel, if you could only know how happy you have made me! if you could only know—”
She looked at him with a startled expression in her face. Was it all settled, then, so suddenly—with so little consideration? Yes, it was all settled; she was beloved with one of those passions that endure for a lifetime. George had said something to that effect. The story had begun, and she was a heroine.
“Good gracious me!” cried Mr. Smith, as he bounded on the parapet of the little bridge, and disported himself there in the character of an amateur Blondin; “if the model old woman who has had so many prizes—we’ve been looking at her diplomas, framed and glazed, in a parlour that I couldn’t have believed to exist out of “Lilian the Deserted” (who begins life as the cottager’s daughter, you know, and elopes with the squire in top-boots out of a diamond-paned window—and I’ve been trying the model old woman’s windows, and Lilian couldn’t have done it),—but I was about to remark, that if the old woman hasn’t had a prize for a model temper, you two will catch it for keeping the tea waiting. Why, Izzie, what’s the matter? you and George are both looking as spooney as—is it, eh?—yes, it is: isn’t it? Hooray! Didn’t I see it from the first?” cried Mr. Smith, striking an attitude upon the balustrade, and pointing down to the two blushing faces with a triumphant finger. “When George asked me for your letter, Izzie,—the little bit of a letter you wrote me when you left Camberwell,—didn’t I see him fold it up as gingerly as if it had been a fifty-pound note and slip it into his waistcoat-pocket, and then try to look as if he hadn’t done it? Do you think I wasn’t fly, then? A pretty knowledge of human nature I should have, if I couldn’t see through that. The creator of Octavio Montefiasco, the Demon of the Galleys, flatters himself that he understands the obscurest diagnostic of the complaint commonly designated ‘spoons.’ Don’t be downhearted, George,” exclaimed Sigismund, jumping suddenly off the parapet of the bridge, and extending his hand to his friend. “Accept the congratulations of one who, with a heart long ber-lighted by the ber-lasting infer-luence of ker-rime, can-er yet-er feel a generous ther-rob in unison with virr-tue.”
After this they all left the bridge, and went straight to the little cottage, where Mr. Raymond had been holding a species of Yankee levée, for the reception of the model villagers, every one of whom knew him, and required his advice on some knotty point of law, medicine, or domestic economy. The tea was laid upon a little round table, close to the window, in the full light of the low evening sun. Isabel sat with her back to that low western light, and George sat next to her, staring at her in a silent rapture, and wondering at himself for his own temerity in having asked her to be his wife. That tiresome Sigismund called Mr. Raymond aside, before sitting down to tea, on the pretence of showing him a highly-coloured representation of Joseph and his Brethren, with a strong family likeness between the brethren; and told him in a loud whisper what had happened on the little bridge. So it was scarcely wonderful that poor George and Isabel took their tea in silence, and were rather awkward in the handling of their teacups. But they were spared any further congratulations from Sigismund, as that young gentleman found it was as much as he could do to hold his own against the orphans in the demolition of the poundcake, to say nothing of a lump of honeycomb which the model old woman produced for the delectation of the visitors.
The twilight deepened presently, and the stars began to glimmer faintly in an opal-tinted sky. Mr. Raymond, Sigismund, and the orphans, employed themselves in packing the baskets with the knives, plates, and glasses which had been used for the picnic. The fly was to pick them all up at the cottage. Isabel stood in the little doorway, looking dreamily out at the village, the dim lights twinkling in the casement windows, the lazy cattle standing in the pond upon the green, and a man holding a couple of horses before the door of the little inn.
“That man with the horses is Jeffson, my father’s gardener; I scarcely like to call him a servant, for he is a kind of connection of my poor mother’s family,” George said, with a little confusion; for he thought that perhaps Miss Sleaford’s pride might take alarm at the idea of any such kindred between her future husband and his servant; “and he is such a good fellow! And what do you think, Isabel?” the young man added, dropping his voice to a whisper; “poor Jeffson has come all the way from Gray bridge on purpose to see you, because he has heard me say that you are very beautiful; and I think he guessed ever so long ago that I had fallen in love with you. Would you have any objection to walk over yonder and see him, Isabel, or shall I call him here?”
“I’ll go to him, if you like; I should like very much to see him,” the girl answered.
She took the arm George offered her. Of course it was only right that she should take his arm. It was all a settled thing now.
“Miss Sleaford has come to see you, Jeff,” the young man said, when they came to where the Yorkshireman was standing.
Poor Jeff had very little to say upon this rather trying occasion. He took off his hat, and stood bareheaded, smiling and blushing—as George spoke of him and praised him—yet all the while keeping a sharp watch upon Isabel’s face. He could see that pale girlish face very well in the evening light, for Miss Sleaford had left her hat in the cottage, and stood bareheaded, with her face turned towards the west, while George rambled on about Jeff and his old school-days, when Jeff and he had been such friends and playfellows.
