“Martha,” said Gilbert, leaning towards her and touching her softly as he spoke, as if fearful that some power in his words might drive them apart,—“Martha, have you considered what I am called? That the family name I bear is in itself a disgrace? Have you imagined what it is to love one so dishonored as I am?”
The delicate line of her upper lip grew clear and firm again, temporarily losing its relaxed gentleness. “I have thought of it,” she answered, “but not in that way. Gilbert, I honored you before I loved you. I will not say that this thing makes no difference, for it does—a difference in the name men give you, a difference in your work through life (for you must deserve more esteem to gain as much as other men)—and a difference in my duty towards you. They call me 'independent,' Gilbert, because, though a woman, I dare to think for myself; I know not whether they mean praise by the word, or no; but I think it would frighten away the thought of love from many men. It has not frightened you; and you, however you were born, are the faithfullest and best man I know. I love you with my whole heart, and I will be true to you!”
With these words, Martha stretched out her hand. Gilbert took and held it, bowing his head fondly over it, and inwardly thanking God that the test which his pride had exacted was over at last. He could reward her truth, spare her the willing sacrifice,—and he would.
“Martha,” he said, “if I sometimes doubted whether you could share my disgrace, it was because I had bitter cause to feel how heavy it is to bear. God knows I would have come to you with a clean and honorable name, if I could have been patient to wait longer in uncertainty. But I could not tell how long the time might be,—I could not urge my mother, nor even ask her to explain”—
“No, no, Gilbert! Spare her!” Martha interrupted.
“I have, Martha,—God bless you for the words!—and I will; it would be the worst wickedness not to be patient, now! But I have not yet told you”—
A loud halloo rang through the dusk.
“It is Mark's voice,” said Martha; “answer him!”
Gilbert shouted, and a double cry instantly replied. They had reached the cross-road from New-Garden, and Mark and Sally, who had been waiting impatiently for a quarter of an hour, rode to meet them. “Did you lose the road?” “Whatever kept you so long?” were the simultaneous questions.
“My girth broke in jumping over the tree,” Martha answered, in her clear, untroubled voice. “I should have been thrown off, but for Gilbert's help. He had to give me his own girth, and so we have ridden slowly, since he has none.”