“Alas! and if it should be already fixed,” she replied, without a smile. “Perhaps it is unreasonable in me to expect it in you as a man, when you had so little of it as a boy; but I used to think it was only shyness then, and always hoped you would outgrow that and gradually become an ideal lover. You have such a multitude of other perfections, however, that it may be nature has denied you this so that I may be reminded that you are human. If the choice had been left with me I think I should have preferred to leave out some other quality in the make-up of your character, good as they all are.”
“What bitter pill is this,” I asked, “that you are sugar-coating to such an extent? Don’t you see that I am aching to begin the improvement in my manners, as soon as you point out the direction?”
“You must know what I mean from my first abrupt question,” she answered. “To make an extreme comparison, frozen mercury is warm beside you, Walter. If you are really to be loyal knight of mine I must send you on a quest for your heart.”
“Ah, I supposed it was understood that I had given it to you.”
“I have never seen it,” she continued, “and you have never before said as much as is contained in those last words. Here we are, talking of many things we shall do after we are married, and yet you have nothing to say of all that wonderful and beautiful world of romance that ought to come before marriage. Is this voyage to come to an end and mean no more to us than to these hundreds of passengers around us, who seem only intent to get back to their work at the earliest possible moment? And is our wedding day to approach and pass and be looked upon merely as part of the necessary and becoming business of our lives? In short, am I never to hear a real love note?”
“Margaret, I have a sister. You know something of the depth of my affection for her. When I meet her in New York to-morrow or next day, if I should throw my arms around her neck and exclaim, in impassioned tones, ‘My sister, I love you,’ what would she think of me?”
“She would think you had left your senses on the other side,” replied Margaret, laughing. “But I decline to accept the parallel. I have not given up my heart to your keeping these many years to be only a sister to you at last.”
“But my mother! Is it possible for me to love you more than my mother loved me? And yet I never heard her speak one word on the subject, and, now that I think of it, I am not sure but words would have cheapened her affection in my mind. You do not doubt me, Margaret?”
“No more than you doubted your mother, although she never told her love. No, it is not so serious as that; but I wish you were more demonstrative, Walter.”
“What, in words? Isn’t there something that speaks louder than words?”