It was hard to resist that pleading voice, those eyes so full of hopeful tenderness, but Myra drew away her hand with an air of gentle dignity, and a painful smile parted her lips.
“No,” she said, “no; I am here of my own will, unsolicited, unexpected. It must not be said that your wife ran away from her father’s roof only to be married.”
The proud delicacy with which this was spoken—so earnest in its simplicity—left no room for a doubt. Mr. Whitney did not plead with her, though greatly disappointed; he merely took her hand, with a smile, and said:
“But this seems like rejecting me altogether. Surely there is too much of pride here. Would you suffer thus to save a life, and then render that life valueless, Myra?”
The color came and went upon Myra’s pale cheek. Now that he was by her side, her hand in his, those eyes upon her face, the poor girl felt how impossible it was to part from him forever.
“I have friends—relatives in the West Indies,” she said; “let me go to them. Come to me there, with the frank and full consent of your parents to our union, and I will be your wife.”
“No, not there, not so far. In Philadelphia—let me place you under the protection of your friends there. I will visit my parents—their presence and full consent shall sanction our marriage. Will not this arrangement satisfy even your delicacy, beloved?”
Again the warm rose tinge came and went on Myra’s cheek, and the tears that still swam in her eyes grew bright as diamonds with the smile that broke through them.
“Yes,” she said, “this is enough.”
Three hours from that time Myra and her lover were on their way to Philadelphia, but the good clergyman and his wife went with them from New Castle, and left their sweet charge with her friends, while Mr. Whitney proceeded to the home of his parents.