Ned came as usual one evening, and remained until very late; once, as she was passing him, she rested her hand upon the table, and leaned toward him in the act of speaking; he covered the hand with his warm palm, and his breath swept her cheek as he whispered: “I wish that I had you all to myself in a nice little home of our own!”
Her radiant eyes answered him, and she bent her head until her cheek touched his caressing lips.
As he was bidding her good-night, he caught her in his arms, saying over and over again, “I do love you, Merna! You are the sweetest little woman on the face of the earth!”
Her face was filled with happiness, and her eyes glowed with tender light; but she laughingly put her hand over his lips: “I imagine that is what you call ‘taffy’!”
He held her closely for a moment, his voice growing low and earnest: “Little one, I mean every word that I say! I do love you—and if only circumstances—well, never mind that talk, but believe that I truly love you!”
She sat in the moonlight thinking for a long time after he left; what was there in that closing speech which sent a chill over her? Only this—love is said to be blind—as to worldly judgment this is true; but love’s intuition of love grows keen with the development of the passion. She felt that she ought to be happy, but she was not—that is—not so very happy; little thrilling thoughts ran through her mind deliciously, then a cold wave of doubt, casting a chill over her spirits. A woman is flattered and pleased if a man makes her a sharer of his secrets, whether of business or otherwise; she thus knows that he fully trusts her love and judgment, and she holds it a sacred charge. She thought uneasily that she could have no fond anticipations with any certainty of their proving a reality. Whatever she built must be the very airiest kind of an air castle, its only foundation an engagement which seemed like a burlesque. Vague allusions, or even words of endearment do not form a very tangible ground upon which to build.
A restless sigh escaped her lips: “I wish——” The unfinished sentence ended with another sigh.
The next evening she waited for Ned in a state of impatient restlessness, she had determined to have a nice long talk with him, although she was not in anywise certain as to what she would say; she thought she would lead him to talk of the future, and the home of which he had spoken; she wondered if he would talk of it frankly, or would he evade her questions as he so often had done, as though he did not comprehend her remark.
She watched the clock anxiously; she walked down the path to the gate a dozen times; she took up her embroidery, set a half-dozen stitches, and laid it down in disgust; she took a book instead, turned a page or two without comprehending a word and tossed it aside with an exclamation of impatience, to restlessly drum on the window.
“Merna, what ails you?” asked her mother querulously.