“My own, own Husband”
Yes;—it had come at last. As one may
imagine to be the certainty of paradise to the doubting,
fearful, all but despairing soul when it has passed
through the gates of death and found in new worlds
a reality of assured bliss, so was the assurance to
her, conveyed by that simple request, “Mary,
say that you will be my wife.” It did not
seem to her that any answer was necessary. Will
it be required that the spirit shall assent to its
entrance into Elysium? Was there room for doubt?
He would never go back from his word now. He
would not have spoken the word had he not been quite,
quite certain. And he had loved her all that
time, when she was so hard to him! It must have
been so. He had loved her, this bright one, even
when he thought that she was to be given to that clay-bound
rustic lover! Perhaps that was the sweetest of
it all, though in draining the sweet draught she had
to accuse herself of hardness, blindness and injustice.
Could it be real? Was it true that she had her
foot firmly placed in Paradise? He was there,
close to her, with his arm still round her, and her
fingers grasped within his. The word wife was
still in her ears,—surely the sweetest word
in all the language! What protestation of love
could have been so eloquent as that question?
“Will you be my wife?” No true man, she
thought, ever ought to ask the question in any other
form. But her eyes were still full of tears,
and as she went she knew not where she was going.
She had forgotten all her surroundings, being only
aware that he was with her, and that no other eyes
were on them.
Then there was another stile on reaching which he
withdrew his arm and stood facing her with his back
leaning against it. “Why do you weep?”
he said;—“and, Mary, why do you not
answer my question? If there be anybody else
you must tell me now.”
“There is nobody else,” she said almost
angrily. “There never was. There never
could be.”
“And yet there was somebody!” She pouted
her lips at him, glancing up into his face for half
a second, and then again hung her head down.
“Mary, do not grudge me my delight”
“No;—no;—no!”
“But you do.”
“No. If there can be delight to you in
so poor a thing, have it all.”
“Then you must kiss me, dear.” She
gently came to him,—oh so gently,—and
with her head still hanging, creeping towards his
shoulder, thinking perhaps that the motion should have
been his, but still obeying him, and then, leaning
against him, seemed as though she would stoop with
her lips to his hand. But this he did not endure.
Seizing her quickly in his arms he drew her up, till
her not unwilling face was close to his, and there
he kept her till she was almost frightened by his
violence. “And now, Mary, what do you say
to my question? It has to be answered.”
“You know.”
