“Yes; always.”
“Why should we not be something more than friends?”
To give Captain Dale his due I must declare that his voice was perfectly natural as he asked this question, and that he showed no signs of nervousness, either in his face or limbs. He had made up his mind to do it on that occasion, and he did it without any signs of outward disturbance. He asked his question, and then he waited for his answer. In this he was rather hard upon his cousin; for, though the question had certainly been asked in language that could not be mistaken, still the matter had not been put forward with all that fullness which a young lady, under such circumstances, has a right to expect.
They had sat down on the turf close to the ha-ha, and they were so near that Bernard was able to put out his hand with the view of taking that of his cousin within his own. But she contrived to keep her hands locked together, so that he merely held her gently by the wrist.
“I don’t quite understand, Bernard,” she said, after a minute’s pause.
“Shall we be more than cousins? Shall we be man and wife?”
Now, at least, she could not say that she did not understand. If the question was ever asked plainly, Bernard Dale had asked it plainly. Shall we be man and wife? Few men, I fancy, dare to put it all at once in so abrupt a way, and yet I do not know that the English language affords any better terms for the question.
“Oh, Bernard! you have surprised me.”
“I hope I have not pained you, Bell. I have been long thinking of this, but I am well aware that my own manner, even to you, has not been that of a lover. It is not in me to smile and say soft things, as Crosbie can. But I do not love you the less on that account. I have looked about for a wife, and I have thought that if I could gain you I should be very fortunate.”
He did not then say anything about his uncle, and the eight hundred a year; but he fully intended to do so as soon as an opportunity should serve. He was quite of opinion that eight hundred a year and the goodwill of a rich uncle were strong ground for matrimony,—were grounds even for love; and he did not doubt but his cousin would see the matter in the same light.
“You are very good to me—more than good. Of course I know that. But, oh, Bernard I did not expect this a bit.”
“But you will answer me, Bell! Or if you would like time to think, or to speak to my aunt, perhaps you will answer me tomorrow?”
“I think I ought to answer you now.”
“Not if it be a refusal, Bell. Think well of it before you do that. I should have told you that our uncle wishes this match, and that he will remove any difficulty there might be about money.”
“I do not care for money.”
“But, as you were saying about Lily, one has to be prudent. Now, in our marriage, everything of that kind would be well arranged. My uncle has promised me that he would at once allow us—”
“Stop, Bernard. You must not be led to suppose that any offer made by my uncle would help to purchase— Indeed, there can be no need for us to talk about money.”
“I wished to let you know the facts of the case, exactly as they are. And as to our uncle, I cannot but think that you would be glad, in such a matter, to have him on your side.”
“Yes, I should be glad to have him on my side; that is, if I were going— But my uncle’s wishes could not influence my decision. The fact is, Bernard—”
“Well, dearest, what is the fact?”
“I have always regarded you rather as a brother than as anything else.”
“But that regard may be changed.”
“No; I think not. Bernard, I will go further and speak on at once. It cannot be changed. I know myself well enough to say that with certainty. It cannot be changed.”
“You mean that you cannot love me?”
“Not as you would have me do. I do love you very dearly, very dearly, indeed. I would go to you in any trouble, exactly as I would go to a brother.”
“And must that be all, Bell?”
“Is not that all the sweetest love that can be felt? But you must not think me ungrateful, or proud. I know well that you are—are proposing to do for me much more than I deserve. Any girl might be proud of such an offer. But, dear Bernard—”
“Bell, before you give me a final answer, sleep upon this and talk it over with your mother. Of course you were unprepared, and I cannot expect that you should promise me so much without a moment’s consideration.”
“I was unprepared, and therefore I have not answered you as I should have done. But as it has gone so far, I cannot let you leave me in uncertainty. It is not necessary that I should keep you waiting. In this matter I do know my own mind. Dear Bernard, indeed it cannot be as you have proposed.”
She spoke in a low voice, and in a tone that had in it something of almost imploring humility; but, nevertheless, it conveyed to her cousin an assurance that she was in earnest; an assurance also that that earnest would not readily be changed. Was she not a Dale? And when did a Dale change his mind? For a while he sat silent by her; and she too, having declared her intention, refrained from further words. For some minutes they thus remained, looking down into the ha-ha. She still kept her old position, holding her hands clasped together over her knees; but he was now lying on his side, supporting his head upon his arm, with his face indeed turned towards her, but with his eyes fixed upon the grass. During this time, however, he was not idle. His cousin’s answer, though it had grieved him, had not come upon him as a blow stunning him for a moment, and rendering him unfit for instant thought. He was grieved, more grieved than he had thought he would have been. The thing that he had wanted moderately, he now wanted the more in that it was denied to him. But he was able to perceive the exact truth of his position, and to calculate what might be his chances if he went on with his suit, and what his advantage if he at once abandoned it.
“I do not wish to press you unfairly, Bell; but may I ask if any other preference—”
“There is no other preference,” she answered. And then again they were silent for a minute or two.
“My uncle will be much grieved at this,” he said at last.
“If that be all,” said Bell, “I do not think that we need either of us trouble ourselves. He can have no right to dispose of our hearts.”
“I understand the taunt, Bell.”
“Dear Bernard, there was no taunt. I intended none.”
“I need not speak of my own grief. You cannot but know how deep it must be. Why should I have submitted myself to this mortification had not my heart been concerned? But that I will bear, if I must bear it—” And then he paused, looking up at her.
“It will soon pass away,” she said.
“I will accept it at any rate without complaint. But as to my uncle’s feelings, it is open to me to speak, and to you, I should think, to listen without indifference. He has
