“What am I to promise?” he asked, in the hope of hiding his embarrassment.
“Do not be afraid, Henry! ’Tis not much I am going to ask of you. Not much to you; but all the world to me. Listen, and I will tell you. Since we met—I mean since I knew that you loved me—I have learnt one thing. It is: that I could not live, and be jealous. The torture I have endured for the last twelve hours has told me that. You will laugh at me, Henry; but I cannot help it. No. Let me be happy, or let me die!”
“Sweet life! why should you think of such a thing as jealousy? You need not fear that. If it should ever spring up between us, it will be my misfortune, not yours—all mine.”
“You jest, Henry! You know not the heart you have conquered. Its firstlings were yours. Though often solicited—pardon me for being so plain—it was never before surrendered to living man. O, Henry! you know not how I love you! Do not think it is the fleeting fancy of a romantic girl—that may change under the influence of a more matured age. I am a woman, with my girlhood gone by. Holtspur!—you have won me—you have won a woman’s love!”
Ecstasy to the soul of him thus addressed.
“Tell me sweet Marion!” cried he. “Forgive me the selfish question; but I cannot help asking it. Tell me why I am thus beloved? I do not deserve it. I am twice your age. I have lost those looks that once, perhaps, may have attracted the romantic fancy. O, Marion Wade! I am unworthy of a love like yours. ’Tis my consciousness of this that constrains me to make the enquiry: why do you love me?”
Marion remained silent—as if she hesitated to give the answer. No wonder. The question is one often asked, but to which it is most difficult to obtain a truthful reply.
There are reasons for this reticence—psychological reasons, which men cannot easily understand. A woman’s citadel is her heart; and its strength lies in keeping secret its conceptions. Of all its secrets the most sacred—the last to be divulged—is that constituting an answer to the question—“Why do you love me?”
No wonder that Henry Holtspur received not an immediate answer. Ardour—more than sincerity led him to press for it:—
“I am a stranger to your circle—if not to your class. The world will tell you, that I am an adventurer. I accept the appellation—qualified by the clause: that I adventure not for myself, but for my fellow-men—for the poor taxed slaves who surround me. Marion Wade, I weary you. Give answer to my question: Why do you love me?”