“Yes,” said Mary gravely, “it is often so—but the love of the true spouse of Christ is different. That leaves no room for an earthly bridegroom.”
Mr. Buxton was silent a moment or two.
“You mean it is the love of the consecrated soul?”
Mary bowed her head. “But I cannot be sure,” she added.
“Then what shall I do?” he said again, almost piteously; and Mary could see even in the faint moonlight that his pleasant face was all broken up and quivering. She laid her hand gently on his arm, and her rings flashed.
“You must be very patient,” she said, “very full of deference—and grave. You must not be ardent nor impetuous, but speak slowly and reverently to her, but at no great length; be plain with her; do not look in her face, and do not show anxiety or despair or hope. You need not fear that your love will not be plain to her. Indeed, I think she knows it already.”
“Why, I have not——” he began.
“I know you have not spoken to her; but I saw that she only looked at you once during supper, and that was when your face was turned from her; she does not wish to look you in the eyes.”
“Ah, she hates me,” he sighed.
“Do not be foolish,” said Mary, “she honours you, and loves you, and is grieved for your grief; but I do not think she will marry you.”