“The purpose was not inspired at first by the highest motive,” said Norman; “but it brought me peace, and, after the kind of dedication that I inwardly made of myself in my time of trouble, it would take some weighty reason, amounting to a clear duty, or physical impossibility, to make me think I ought to turn back. I believe”—the tears rose to his eyes, and he brought out the words with difficulty—“that, if this greatest of all joys were likely to hinder me from my calling, I ought to seek strength to regard it as a temptation, and to forgo it.”
“You ought, if it were so,” said Meta, nevertheless holding him tighter. “I could not bear to keep back a soldier. If this were last year, and I had any tie or duty here, it would be very hard. But no one needs me, and if the health I have always had be continued to me, I don’t think I shall be much in the way. There,”—drawing back a little, and trying to laugh off her feeling—“only tell me at once if you think me still too much of a fine lady.”
“I—you—a fine lady! Did anything ever give you the impression that I did?”
“I shall not get poor Harry into a scrape, shall I? He told me that you said so, last spring, and I feared you judged me too truly.”
After a few exclamations of utter surprise, it flashed on Norman. “I know, I know—Harry interpreted my words in his own blunt fashion!”
“Then you did say something like it?”
“No, but—but—In short, Meta, these sailors’ imaginations go to great lengths. Harry had guessed more than I knew myself, before he had sailed, and taxed me with it. It was a subject I could not bear then, and I answered that you were too far beyond my hopes.”
“Six years ago!” said Meta slowly, blushing deeper and deeper. “Some eyes saw it all that time, and you—and,” she added, laughing, though rather tearfully, “I should never have known it, if Tom had not taken me through the plantations!”
“Not if I had not discovered that your preferences did not lie—”
“Among boudoirs and balls?” said Meta. “Harry was right. You thought me a fine lady after all.”