John stood and gazed at it, and its living, glowing beauty seemed to fire his imagination, as it fired earth and heaven, in such sort that the torch of love lit upon his heart like the sunbeams on the mountain tops. Then from the celestial beauty of the skies he turned to look at the earthly beauty of the woman who sat there before him, and found that also fair. Whether it was the contemplation of the glories of Nature—for there is always a suspicion of melancholy in beautiful things—or whatever it was, her face had a touch of sadness on it that he had never seen before, and which certainly added to its charm as a shadow adds to the charm of the light.
“What are you thinking of, Bessie?” he asked.
She looked up, and he saw that her lips were quivering a little. “Well, do you know,” she said, “oddly enough, I was thinking of my mother. I can only just recall her, a woman with a thin, sweet face. I remember one evening she was sitting in front of a house while the sun was setting as it is now, and I was playing by her, when suddenly she called me to her and kissed me, then pointed to the red clouds that were gathered in the sky, and said, ‘I wonder if you will ever think of me, dear, when I have passed through those golden gates?’ I did not understand what she meant, but somehow I have remembered the words, and though she died so long ago, I do often think of her;” and two large tears rolled down her face as she spoke.
Few men can bear to see a sweet and pretty woman in tears, and this little incident was too much for John, whose caution and doubts all went to the winds together.
“Bessie,” he said, “don’t cry, dear; please, don’t! I can’t bear to see you cry.”
She looked up as though to remonstrate at his words, then she looked down again.
“Listen, Bessie,” he went on awkwardly enough, “I have something to say to you. I want to ask you if—if, in short, you will marry me. Wait a bit, don’t say anything yet; you know me pretty well by now. I am no chicken, dear, and I have knocked about the world a good deal, and had one or two love affairs like other people. But, Bessie, I never met such a sweet woman, or, if you will let me say it, such a lovely woman as you are, and if you will have me, dear, I think that I shall be the luckiest man in South Africa;” and he stopped, not knowing exactly what else to say, and feeling that the time had not come for action, if indeed it was to come at all.
When first she understood the drift of his talk Bessie had flushed up to the eyes, then the blood sank back to her breast, and left her as pale as a lily. She loved the man, and they were happy words to her, and she was satisfied with them, though perhaps some women might have thought that they left a good deal to be desired. But Bessie was not of an exacting nature.
At last she spoke.
“Are you sure,” she asked, “that you mean all this? You know sometimes people say things of a sudden, upon an impulse, and afterwards they wish they never had been said. Then it would be rather awkward supposing I were to say ‘yes,’ would it not?”