Yet, that very afternoon, as they were strolling through the wood together, and the conversation turned upon her child, he was moved by some mysterious impulse, to take her hand in his, and with a faltering voice, to say,—
"Blanche ... dearest Blanche ... forgive me for what I am now going to say ... refuse the offer if you will, but do not be offended with me for making it ... Your child, Blanche, is growing up ... She will soon need a better protector than even your love ... she ... I hope you will not misunderstand me ... I know you cannot love me ... though I have loved you so many years ... but I am grown used to that ... I have loved you, Blanche, for years, scarcely ever with the hope of a return, and latterly, with the certainty, that my love was hopeless ... But when I offer myself as a husband ... as a protector to you, and to your child ... I do that which, if it would not pain you, I feel to be right ... I want to have a husband's authority for devoting my life to you. I do not ask your love...!"
Her head was turned away, and her eyes were filling with tears—tears of exquisite pain, of inexpressible delight; as these words, "I do not ask your love," thrilled through her, she suddenly turned and looked him full in the face.
Was it her blushing tremor, was it her undisguised tenderness which spoke so clearly to the yearning heart of her lover? I know not. Love has a language of its own, untranslatable by any words of ours, and that language in its mystic, yet unequivocal voice, told Captain Heath, that he was loved.
Printed by STEWART and MURRAY, Old Bailey.