“It would make no difference if I did,” she answered; “people will say anything.”
“But is it—is it true?”
“Is what true?” she quietly asked.
“That he is to marry you!” The words were said, and he would have given his life to recall them. He dropped his head, not daring to meet her eyes.
Martha Deane rose to her feet, and stood before him. Then he lifted his head; the moon shone full upon it, while her face was in shadow, but he saw the fuller light of her eye, the firmer curve of her lip.
“Gilbert Potter,” she said, “what right have you to ask me such a question?”
“I have no right—none,” he answered, in a voice whose suppressed, husky tones were not needed to interpret the pain and bitterness of his face. Then he quickly turned away and left her.
Martha Deane remained a minute, motionless, standing as he left her. Her heart was beating fast, and she could not immediately trust herself to rejoin the gay company. But now the dance was over, and the inseparable Sally hastened forward.
“Martha!” cried the latter, hot and indignant, “what is the matter with Gilbert? He is behaving shamefully; I saw him just now turn away from you as if you were a—a shock of corn. And the way he snapped me up—it is really outrageous!”
“It seems so, truly,” said Martha. But she knew that Gilbert Potter loved her, and with what a love.