“But my conditions have changed so much in the last two or three years. I ought to be used to it; it’s not as if it was the first time. Before my father got sick we were so comfortable. We were rich and had quantities of beautiful things like that cabinet. And as they have gone, one by one, so we have come down bit by bit, till I am left like this.”
She made a gesture to include the empty room and turned back to the fire.
“But you won’t stay like this,” he said, throwing a glance over the bare walls.
“Don’t you think so?” she said, looking into the fire with dejected eyes. “You’re kind to try to cheer me up.”
“You can be happy, protected and cared for, with your life full of sunshine and joy—”
He stopped. Every step he took was of moment, and he was not the type of man to forgive himself a mistake. Mariposa was looking at him, frowning slightly.
“How do you mean?” she said. “With my voice?”
“No,” he answered, in a tone that suddenly thrilled with meaning, “with me.”
That quivering pause which falls between a man and woman when the words that will link or sever them for life are to be spoken, held the room. Mariposa felt the terrified desire to arrest the coming words that is the maiden’s last instinctive stand for her liberty. But her brain was confused, and her heart beat like a hammer.
“With me,” Essex repeated, as the pause grew unbearable. “Is there no happiness for you in that thought?”