“No, Leopold, I should not like it. And I still believe you would have done better to go away the day I first advised you to do so.”
“Have I been a burden to you, Francis?”
“You know better than that. You know I have much to thank you for: you have stood by me in days of suffering, and borne my troubles with me; you have been open, frank, and obliging with me; in a word, you have spoilt me, and I shall feel my loneliness doubled when you are gone.”
“Not for long, though, for I will come back soon—with—with a trousseau!”
“And, in the name of goodness, for whom?”
“For whom, indeed, but my well-beloved cousin Francis Mordaunt!”
“That’s a poor, very poor sort of jest, sir; you know very well that your cousin Mordaunt has no intentions of ever marrying.”
“Listen to me, Francis! When we first met on the heath, and you told me your intentions on this point, I had no reasons for trying to dissuade you from them; but to-day, as you yourself know, the case is different. You will recollect the freedom with which I have pointed out to you any defects which I considered a blemish on your noble character. Do you think I should have taken such a liberty if I had not conceived the idea, fostered the hope, of your one day consenting to become—my wife?”
The word, the all-important word, was at last said.
“Well, indeed, Leo,” she began with a profound sigh, “since you force me to speak seriously, I must remind you of my last warning, ‘not to use such language to me;’ it cannot, it may not be.”