Jean Colchis noted their peculiar love, and smiled. No man was closer to the heart of Jean Colchis than Junius Cobb. Nothing could the latter ask that the old man in Duke’s Lane would not have given him—even his daughter, should he seek her. But this, of course, the old man knew was beyond expectation. It would have pleased his old heart, but the disparity of years caused him to believe it to be impossible.
And Marie—what were her thoughts and feelings?
She loved Junius Cobb—loved him, young as she was, as a mature woman loves the man she would call husband. She loved him with her whole heart, with her very soul.
Cobb knew this, and reproached himself many times for causing her affectionate heart to entertain the hope that she would sometime be his wife.
It had come by degrees, unseen by either, until each had felt that the brightness of the world was centered in the other. He could not marry her; this he knew, for she was too young. He could not wait until she had bloomed into the magnificent woman that he knew nature had destined her to become, for he would then be dead to the world. He could not tell her the truth! He did what thousands of others have done—he temporized.
“Marie,” and he took both of her hands in his, and looked long and lovingly into her eyes; “Marie, you are not a child, you are a woman. You are far beyond your years. What I tell you to-night will cause you pain, but it must be said.”
“O, Mr. Cobb!” she cried, and the tears flooded her eyes; “are you going to tell me that I am no longer your little Marie! that an—an—another is going to take you away from your little girl?” and she buried her head in his hands and cried piteously.
“No, Marie, not that!” he quickly returned. “But I am going to leave you; am going far away; I may never return!”