She remained silent, troubled as he was, trembling a little. He continued urgently:
“For both our sakes, Joyce—please! Your father is a proud man, quick-tempered. He couldn’t endure the thought of his daughter being unwelcome anywhere. I should feel as he does. And he would insist upon an immediate recognition of our engagement. There might be a scene, a rupture between Parson and Squire. Think of that!”
“I do—I do.”
“I dare not speak to mother first, but something tells me she will help us. She loves you. But she would think it her duty to tell father. Indeed, he would never forgive her if she kept such a secret from him.”
“Yes, yes, but Lionel, I must tell father. I hate to refuse the first thing you have asked me, but father has been more than father to me. Ever since mother’s death he has tried to take her place. Often I have laughed at him, when he came fussing to my room about my wearing warmer clothes and all that, but I loved him the more for his fidgeting. I must tell him to-morrow morning, after Mr. Moxon has gone.”
“He may forbid you to see me.”
“You don’t know him. He is proud, yes, but he will sacrifice his pride for me. If I ask him, he will help us. We may have to wait. Do you think I cannot wait for—you?”
They parted, and returned to each other. The man exacted pledges from the maid. She would remain true if the winds whistled and the tempest roared? She swore it, as she clung to him, hearing the raging blast already, shrinking from it, revealing herself adorably as weak only in this: the gnawing fear that her love might bring trouble and suffering to her lover. Gallantly, he reassured her. Let the storm, if it came, rage itself out! They would glide afterwards into a snugger harbourage. He turned to leave her, but looked back. Tears filled her eyes. He kissed them away.
“I found you crying. Let me leave you smiling. Your smiles, Joyce, are your dowry. I shall work to win those dear little smiles.”
She told him that she was happy. Did he grudge her tears of joy?