"Past thirty-two," I replied.
"You are not a boy," he said like one musing, "and you ought to know your mind." Then he looked steadily in my face as though he would read my inmost thoughts.
"He is right," he cried, looking fiercely out of the window and across the broad rich valley where the clear water of the river coiled. He seemed communing with himself and thinking of some event in his own past life.
"He is right," he repeated still fiercely; "by God, I would do it myself if I were in his place!"
He left the room abruptly without looking at me, and I was left alone. Minutes passed, I know not how many, and I stood waiting for my love.
Whatever might be the truth concerning her father's marriage, it was naught to me. Now that I had a home to offer her, everything was plain, and I could have shouted aloud in my joy. Had she been a beggar maid it would not have mattered; I loved her with all the strength of my life, and my love had made me careless concerning the thoughts of the world. For love is of God, and knows nothing of the laws of man. Besides, I had looked into the depths of her heart; I had seen her sorrow when she thought I was in danger. I remembered the light which shone from her eyes when she came to me that night at Restormel. I remembered the tone of her voice when she had sobbed out my name.
I heard a rustle of a woman's dress outside the door, and eagerly, just like a thoughtless boy, I ran and opened it; and then I saw my Nancy, pale and wan, but still my Nancy,—and then I wanted naught more.
CHAPTER XXX. IN WHICH UNCLE ANTHONY PLAYS HIS HARP.
Now of what Nancy and I said to each other during the next few minutes there is no need for me to write. At first joy conquered all other feelings, and we lived in a land from whence all sorrow had fled, but by and by she began to talk about "good-byes," and a look of sadness dimmed the bright light in her eyes. So I asked her the meaning of this, and it soon came out that she had been grieving sorely concerning the dark shadow which had fallen upon her life. She had learned from Hugh Boscawen probably about her father's marriage being invalid, and she felt her position keenly. For although she had been treated with great kindness at the home of the Boscawens, she could not help believing that she was there on sufferance and not as an honoured guest. So to cheer her I told her of the good fortune that had befallen me, and how Hugh Boscawen had been commissioned to give me back my old home as a reward for the services I had rendered to my country. At this she expressed much joy, but persisted in saying that my good fortune had removed us further away from each other than ever. And then she repeated what Hugh Boscawen had said a few minutes before, and declared that she would never stand in the way of my advancement.