“Oh no, they will keep two years.”
“Two years! be reasonable, Fred,” said Mary, turning to walk. “Don’t encourage flattering expectations.”
“Why not? One lives on them better than on unflattering ones. If we can’t be married in two years, the truth will be quite bad enough when it comes.”
“I have heard a story of a young gentleman who once encouraged flattering expectations, and they did him harm.”
“Mary, if you’ve got something discouraging to tell me, I shall bolt; I shall go into the house to Mr. Garth. I am out of spirits. My father is so cut up—home is not like itself. I can’t bear any more bad news.”
“Should you call it bad news to be told that you were to live at Stone Court, and manage the farm, and be remarkably prudent, and save money every year till all the stock and furniture were your own, and you were a distinguished agricultural character, as Mr. Borthrop Trumbull says—rather stout, I fear, and with the Greek and Latin sadly weather-worn?”
“You don’t mean anything except nonsense, Mary?” said Fred, coloring slightly nevertheless.
“That is what my father has just told me of as what may happen, and he never talks nonsense,” said Mary, looking up at Fred now, while he grasped her hand as they walked, till it rather hurt her; but she would not complain.
“Oh, I could be a tremendously good fellow then, Mary, and we could be married directly.”
“Not so fast, sir; how do you know that I would not rather defer our marriage for some years? That would leave you time to misbehave, and then if I liked some one else better, I should have an excuse for jilting you.”