“There's been a reason, gal, and it's one that troubles me even now—nay, don't flush up so, and look fiery like, for there are thoughts which will stick long in any man's mind, as there be words that will stick in his throat—but, then ag'in, there's feelin's that will get the better of 'em all, and to these feelin's I find I must submit. You've no longer a father, or a mother, Judith, and it's morally unpossible that you and Hetty could live here, alone, allowing it was peace and the Iroquois was quiet; but, as matters stand, not only would you starve, but you'd both be prisoners, or scalped, afore a week was out. It's time to think of a change and a husband, and, if you'll accept of me, all that's past shall be forgotten, and there's an end on't.”
Judith had difficulty in repressing her impatience until this rude declaration and offer were made, which she evidently wished to hear, and which she now listened to with a willingness that might well have excited hope. She hardly allowed the young man to conclude, so eager was she to bring him to the point, and so ready to answer.
“There—Hurry—that's enough,” she said, raising a hand as if to stop him—“I understand you as well as if you were to talk a month. You prefer me to other girls, and you wish me to become your wife.”
“You put it in better words than I can do, Judith, and I wish you to fancy them said just as you most like to hear 'em.”
“They're plain enough, Harry, and 'tis fitting they should be so. This is no place to trifle or deceive in. Now, listen to my answer, which shall be, in every tittle, as sincere as your offer. There is a reason, March, why I should never—
“I suppose I understand you, Judith, but if I'm willing to overlook that reason, it's no one's consarn but mine—Now, don't brighten up like the sky at sundown, for no offence is meant, and none should be taken.”
“I do not brighten up, and will not take offence,” said Judith, struggling to repress her indignation, in a way she had never found it necessary to exert before. “There is a reason why I should not, cannot, ever be your wife, Hurry, that you seem to overlook, and which it is my duty now to tell you, as plainly as you have asked me to consent to become so. I do not, and I am certain that I never shall, love you well enough to marry you. No man can wish for a wife who does not prefer him to all other men, and when I tell you this frankly, I suppose you yourself will thank me for my sincerity.”
“Ah! Judith, them flaunting, gay, scarlet-coated officers of the garrisons have done all this mischief!”
“Hush, March; do not calumniate a daughter over her mother's grave! Do not, when I only wish to treat you fairly, give me reason to call for evil on your head in bitterness of heart! Do not forget that I am a woman, and that you are a man; and that I have neither father, nor brother, to revenge your words!”
“Well, there is something in the last, and I'll say no more. Take time, Judith, and think better on this.”