I drew nearer, and heard clearer. The speakers were not in the house, but outside, by the edge of the orange grove. Softly treading, gently parting the boughs, now crouching beneath them, now gliding erect, I arrived unobserved within six paces of where they stood—near enough to perceive their dresses glistening through the leaves—to hear every word that passed between them.
Not many had been spoken, before I perceived that I had arrived at a peculiar moment—a crisis. The lover had just offered himself for a husband—had, perhaps for the first time, seriously made his declaration. In all probability it was this had been eliciting my sister’s laughter.
“And really, Mr Ringgold, you wish to make me your wife? You are in earnest in what you have said?”
“Nay, Miss Randolph, do not mock me; you know for how many years I have been devoted to you.”
“Indeed, I do not. How could I know that?”
“By my words. Have I not told you so a hundred times?”
“Words! I hold words of little value in a matter of this kind. Dozens have talked to me as you, who, I suppose, cared very little about me. The tongue is a great trifler, Mr Arens.”
“But my actions prove my sincerity. I have offered you my hand and my fortune; is not that a sufficient proof of devotion?”
“No, silly fellow; nothing of the sort. Were I to become your wife, the fortune would still remain your own. Besides, I have some little fortune myself, and that would come under your control. So you see the advantage would be decidedly in your favour. Ha, ha, ha!”
“Nay, Miss Randolph; I should not think of controlling yours; and if you will accept my hand—”