“This is very strange, Mr. Turner. Why do you speak of this thing now after so many years? What has happened that you talk to me of marriage? You say it is better for the child—better for us all. But why?”
“I will make a good husband to you—at any rate do the best I can!” pleaded poor Turner, sadly out of place in his love-making.
“Perhaps you have fallen in love with me all of a sudden,” said my bonne, half bitterly, half in a questioning manner, as if she faintly hoped he would assent to the idea.
“I—what, I fall in love!” cried Turner, and his face writhed into a miserable smile; “it isn’t in me to make a fool of myself at this age. I hope you have a better opinion of me than that.”
She answered rapidly, and partly in Spanish. There was a good deal of womanly bitterness in her voice, but I could only gather a few hasty ejaculations.
“You joke, Mr. Turner—you mock—you have found a way of amusing yourself with the lone stranger. I know that you always hated us Spaniards, but you never mocked me in this way till now.”
“There it is again,” exclaimed the poor suitor. “I guessed how it would all turn out; never did know how to manage one of the sex—never shall! Look here, Maria, I’m in earnest—very much in earnest; ask Lady Catherine—ask Zana if I’m not determined on it.”
Turner gathered himself up, moved awkwardly enough toward Maria, and taking her hand looked at it wistfully, as if quite uncertain what to do next.
“I never kissed a woman’s hand in my life,” he said, desperately, “but I’ll kiss yours, on my soul I will, if you’ll just marry me without more ado.”
She leaned heavily against the window, and said more temperately,