“A poor honor,” she said, “that I sit comfortably at home and love you, while you are face to face with death!”
Martha Deane's resolution was inflexibly taken. That same evening she went into the sitting-room, where her father was smoking a pipe before the open stove, and placed her chair opposite to his.
“Father,” she said, “thee has never asked any questions concerning Alfred Barton's visit.”
The Doctor started, and looked at her keenly, before replying. Her voice had its simple, natural tone, her manner was calm and self-possessed; yet something in her firm, erect posture and steady eye impressed him with the idea that she had determined on a full and final discussion of the question.
“No, child,” he answered, after a pause. “I saw Alfred, and he said thee was rather taken by surprise. He thought, perhaps, thee didn't rightly know thy own mind, and it would be better to wait a little. That is the chief reason why I haven't spoken to thee.”
“If Alfred Barton said that, he told thee false,” said she. “I knew my own mind, as well then as now. I said to him that nothing could ever make me his wife.”
“Martha!” the Doctor exclaimed, “don't be hasty! If Alfred is a little older”—
“Father!” she interrupted, “never mention this thing again! Thee can neither give me away, nor sell me; though I am a woman, I belong to myself. Thee knows I'm not hasty in anything. It was a long time before I rightly knew my own heart; but when I did know it and found that it had chosen truly, I gave it freely, and it is gone from me forever!”
“Martha, Martha!” cried Dr. Deane, starting from his seat, “what does all this mean?”
“It means something which it is thy right to know, and therefore I have made up my mind to tell thee, even at the risk of incurring thy lasting displeasure. It means that I have followed the guidance of my own heart and bestowed it on a man a thousand times better and nobler than Alfred Barton ever was, and, if the Lord spares us to each other, I shall one day be his wife!”