And the girl, having flung this speech at him with all the dignity of outraged pride and innocence, suddenly broke down at the end, and burst into such bitter sobs that Clifford’s heart was wrung. But as he sprang toward her, she sprang back and made a rush for the door of the cottage. Clifford, however, was too quick for her, and placing himself between the girl and the refuge she wished to reach, he spoke to her in imploring, passionate tones:
“One moment. You must listen to me. All the world will be against you, you say? Not all, Nell, not all. I will take your part. I will show them what to believe. Take me for your husband, Nell, and then who can dare to think of you except as I think? Who can dare to say a word when you are my wife?”
The girl stood transfixed. He was pleading as eloquently, as earnestly, as if it had been for his own life. When he paused, letting his burning eyes speak his love, as he watched her startled, blushing face, and fancied he could trace the feelings of amazement, incredulity, pleasure and doubt as they struggled in her heart, she presently shook her head, and turned away so that she should not again meet his eyes.
“Do you know what you are saying?” she asked in a matter-of-fact tone, after a short silence. “And do you really expect me to listen to such nonsense?”
“It is not nonsense. It is my firm intention to make you my wife—”
“Ah, but it’s my firm intention to be nothing of the kind. I am very much obliged to you for your good intentions, and I quite see that you think you are doing rather a fine thing in offering to marry me. But,” and she drew herself up, and flashed at him a defiant look, “I am not going to be married like that, and out of pity, too, to a man I never saw till yesterday!”
These last words came upon Clifford with a shock of surprise. He had forgotten what a short time it was that his acquaintance with Nell had lasted; it seemed to him that he had known her for months—years. He was ready with his answer to this objection.
“As to that, I have known you for a very long time, Nell,” he said, gravely. “I have known you just as long as I have looked forward to meeting a girl exactly like you. And I have always intended, when I did meet her, to take no rest until I had persuaded her to become my wife. I think you may take that as an answer to the suggestion that there is any ‘pity’ in the case. The ‘pity’ will be for me if you won’t have me.”
Now this was rather prettily put, and Nell looked mollified. She took her broom in hand again, and affected to go on with her sweeping, although the pretense was not a very effectual one.
“Unfortunately,” she said, in a low voice, which was not so flippant as she could have wished, “I haven’t such a vivid imagination myself, and I can’t pretend that I have known you long enough to be sure that I should like you for a husband.”