“No, thank Heaven, Mark! But I cannot understand it.”
“Well, then, understand it now. The advent of my promised bride, as the wedded wife of another, does not disturb a pulse of mine, because, in my heart—in any honourable heart—love could not long survive esteem, more than it could survive hope or duty, and because”—— Here his whole manner grew most earnest, most intense, and passing his arm over her shoulder, he drew her face towards his own, and kissing away the tear drops from her eyes, said, “Because I love this single tear of true feeling better than the whole heart of yonder selfish beauty!”
And now, if Mark fancied tears, he might have a plenty of them; for now they fell warm and fast.
“What is the matter, Rosalie? Why do you weep now?” asked Mark.
But she did not answer. He repeated the question perseveringly.
At last, sobbing softly, and smiling, and sighing, and blushing, and averting her face, she said, archly, “Juliet wept at what she was ‘glad of.’”
“Are you glad, Rosalie? Tell me, dear Rose. Are you glad that I love you more than all the world that I have chosen you the guiding star of my life?”
She did not, could not answer.
He repeated this question, also searchingly, perseveringly, only to hear her answer; and he bent his ear, and averted his eyes, and quelled the beating of his heart, to win her reply.
At last it came, with her face hidden on his shoulder, and in a tone scarcely above her breath—“I always hoped you would like me at last; I did not think you would so soon, though.”