“I esteem you very much,” she faltered. “I thank you for the honor you do me; but I—oh, pray, let me think what I am doing.” She covered her face with her hands, and her bosom panted visibly.
Mr. Coventry loved her sincerely, and his own heart beat high at this moment. He augured well from her agitation; but presently he saw something that puzzled him, and gave a man of his experience a qualm.
A tear forced its way between her fingers; another, and another, soon followed.
Coventry said to himself, “There's some other man.” And he sighed heavily; but even in this moment of true and strong feeling he was on his guard, and said nothing.
It was his wisest course. She was left to herself, and an amazing piece of female logic came to Mr. Coventry's aid. She found herself crying, and got frightened at herself. That, which would have made a man pause, had just the opposite effect on her. She felt that no good could come to any body of those wild and weak regrets that made her weep. She saw she had a weakness and a folly to cure herself of; and the cure was at hand. There was a magic in marriage; a gentleman could, somehow, MAKE a girl love him when once she had married him. Mr. Coventry should be enabled to make her love him; he should cure her of this trick of crying; it would be the best thing for every body—for HIM, for Jael, for Mr. Coventry, and even for herself.
She dried her eyes, and said, in a low, tremulous voice: “Have you spoken to papa of—of this?”
“No. I waited to be authorized by you. May I speak to him?”
“Yes.”
“May I tell him—?”
“Oh I can't tell you what to tell him. How dark it is getting. Please take me home.” Another tear or two.