This tribute enraptured Dyckman incredibly. That he should mean so much to so wonderful a thing as she was was unbelievably flattering. He had dogged Charity's heels with meek and unrewarded loyalty until he had lost all pride. Kedzie's tears at the thought of leaving him woke it to life again.
“By golly, you sha'n't go, then!” he cried. “I was thinking of coming out there to visit you, but—but it would be better yet for you to stay right here in little old New York.”
This brought back Kedzie's smile. But she faltered, “What if they hold me to my contract, though?”
“Then we'll bust the old contract. I'll buy 'em off. You needn't work for anybody.”
There was enough of the old-fashioned woman of one sort left in Kedzie to relish the slave-block glory of being fought over by two purchasers. She spoke rather slyly:
“But I'll be without wages then. How would I live? I've got to work.”
Dyckman answered at once: “Of course not. I'll take care of you. I offered to before, you know.” He had made a proposal of marriage some time before; it was the only sort of proposal that he had been tempted to make to Kedzie. He liked her immensely; she fascinated him; he loved to pet her and kiss her and talk baby talk to her; but she had never inflamed his emotions.
Either it was the same with her, or she had purposely controlled herself and him from policy, or had been restrained by coldness or by a certain decency, of which she had a good deal, after all and in spite of all.
Throughout their relations they had deceived Ferriday and other cynics. For all their indifference to appearances, they had behaved like a well-behaved pair of young betrothed Americans, with a complete freedom from chaperonage, and a considerable liberality of endearments, but no serious misdemeanor.
Kedzie knew what he meant, but she wanted to hear him propose again. So she murmured: