"Willingly," he said.
A ray of pleasure flitted over the bronzed face of Bernard Lynn. But in an instant he was sad and earnest again. "Randolph, I have been thinking, and most seriously,—I beg you to listen to the result of my thoughts. Nay, not a word,—fewest words are best, and a plain answer to a plain question will decide all.—I have been thinking of the desolate condition in which Eleanor will be left, in case her father is suddenly taken away. She will need a friend, a protector, a husband."
He paused; Randolph, all agitation, awaited his next word in breathless suspense.
"I have long known her feelings,—she tells me that she knows yours. You are aware of my fortune and position,—I am aware of yours. Plainly, then, do you love her,—do you desire her hand?"
For a moment Randolph could not reply.
"O, my dearest friend, can you ask it?" he exclaimed, taking both hands of Mr. Lynn in his own,—"Do I desire Eleanor's hand? It is the only wish of my life,—"
"Enough, my friend, enough," replied Bernard, as a tear stole down his cheek. "In serious matters, I am a man of few words,—I fear that I may be suddenly taken away—I feel that there is no use of delay. Shall it take place this evening in your house?"
Randolph could only reply by a silent grasp of the hand.
"In presence of your sister, myself and the clergyman? And then, the day after to-morrow we leave for Charleston—"
"You speak the dearest wish of my soul," was all that Randolph could reply.