‘What is true?’ asks her father.
She is not trembling half so much outwardly as he is trembling inwardly. This thing, can it be true? And that baby—but is she a baby? How many years is it since the other Susan—his own Susan—died?
‘That—that I love him!’ says Susan brokenly.
When she says this she covers her face with her hands as if distinctly ashamed of herself, and Crosby, divining her thoughts, lays his arms round her and presses both hands and face out of sight against his breast.
Mr. Barry looks at him.
‘She is only a little country girl,’ says he. As if disliking the definition of her, Susan releases herself and stands back from Crosby. ‘And you—have large possessions—and a position that will enable you to choose a wife anywhere. Susan—has nothing!’
‘She has everything,’ says Crosby hotly. ‘When I look at her I know it is I who have nothing. What money, what position, could compare with the wealth of her beauty?... And now this gift of her love!... I am only too proud, I think myself only too blest, to be allowed to lay at her feet all that I have.’
He turns to his pretty sweetheart and holds out his hand to her frankly. And she comes to him—a little pale, a little unnerved, but with earnest love in her shining eyes. And as he bends to her she gives him back with honest warmth the kiss that in her father’s presence he gives her.
It seems a seal upon the truth of their declaration. Mr. Barry, going to her, lays his hands upon her shoulders. He is pale still, but the look of depression that almost amounted to despair that marked his face when Crosby first came in is now gone, and in its place is hope—and some other feeling hard to place—but pride, perhaps, is the nearest to it.
‘God bless you, Susan, always!’ says he solemnly. In this moment, as he looks at her, for the first time it comes to him that she is the very image of her dead mother. ‘It is a great responsibility,’ says he. His words are slow and difficult. ‘Try to be worthy of it! Be a good woman, and love your husband!’