“No,” he said, clutching at her hands, “never mind going for the water. See, I—I am better now,” and as he spoke he struggled to his feet, staggered over to the garden bench and sank down upon it.
“I should like you to sit down here beside me, little Jess,” he whispered, hoarsely; “I have something to say to you.”
For some moments he sits in utter silence, looking across the tops of the waving trees—looking, yet seeing nothing, for he is busy with his own conflicting thoughts.
Jess watches him wonderingly, trying to read the thoughts that cause his handsome, grave face to grow graver still and his lips to twitch.
“It will be better so,” he ruminated. “It would be selfish of me to shuffle off this mortal coil without doing some one good deed for the benefit of some human being; and what better act could I do than marry this child, that she may, in accordance with the will, receive the great fortune which otherwise she must miss, and be thrown, penniless, upon the world? Directly after the ceremony I can explain to her that I am the John Dinsmore whom she dreaded so, and then quietly go away, waiving all of my rights to the inheritance in her favor.”
“Of what are you thinking, Mr. Moore?” she asks, wistfully. “Whatever it is,” she adds, slowly, “it is almost making you cry again.”
“I was thinking of you, and trying to decide your future,” he answers, slowly, “and it culminated into the one question I now ask you: Will you be my wife?”
“Your wife!” she gasps, wondering if she has heard aright, and believing she must be in some strange, sweet dream from which she will awaken in another instant.
He nods, dumbly. It is a great effort for him to utter the words, and his lips refuse to repeat them.
“Do you really mean it, Mr. Moore?”