He started, dropped his hammer, turned, took off his hat, and stood waiting her commands. He had not seen her since the morning after he had saved her life, and now he was too much amazed at her sudden appearance on the isle to find any word by which to welcome her. He could merely wait for her to make known the object of her visit.
For some moments she too continued silent. It seemed to her that it must take her life to utter the words which she had come resolved to speak, and with which this story opened:
“David Lindsay, will you marry me?”
It is not necessary to go over any part of that scene already related. It must be still fresh in the minds of our readers.
Well might the young fisherman be struck dumb with amazement and terror; well might his half palsied tongue refuse to utter any word but her own name, and that in a tone of unbounded consternation; for must not the lovely girl and wealthy heiress have lost her reason before making a proposal of marriage to any man, least of all to him—the poor, uncultivated young laborer? And when he had heard all that she had to say, well might he groan forth, in tones of deepest sorrow:
“Miss de la Vera, it is you who are mad!”
“‘Mad!’ ‘Mad!’” she echoed, her face reflecting the dismay so plainly revealed on his own countenance. “‘Mad!’ Oh, indeed, perhaps I am! But, oh, David Lindsay, if I am mad, so much the more need have I of your protection! If I am mad, oh, my old playmate, marry the poor mad girl to take care of her, to save her from herself, to save her from something worse than madness! to save her from sin! from crime! from murder! from suicide!” she exclaimed, her vehemence and wild excitement increasing with every word.
“Great Heavens, Miss de la Vera! What has happened to drive you to this extremity?” cried the young man, turning deadly pale, in dread of he knew not what. “Tell me all! Everything, freely! You know that my heart is yours—my life is at your feet, to do your will with! You know that I would do anything on earth you wish me to do, unless it would be to do you any wrong. Now you plead with me to do that which would make this world a paradise to me, unless it should make it a purgatory to you. Now tell me all. But first sit down. You are trembling so that you can scarcely stand,” he added, as he threw off his pea-jacket, folded it and laid it on the overturned boat, to make her a comfortable seat.
She sank down, mechanically, too absorbed in the subject of her thoughts to notice how he had exposed himself to the cold for her convenience.
That she might speak with the less embarrassment, he stood a little behind her. And then, with her eyes fixed upon the ground, she told him all! And she ended with these words—fearful words for her to speak and for her old playmate to hear: