‘Then it shall all be yours,—a birthday present.’
The young man protested; it was too much.
‘No, you must accept it all,—equatorial, dome stand, hut, and everything that has been put here for this astronomical purpose. The possession of these apparatus would only compromise me. Already they are reputed to be yours, and they must be made yours. There is no help for it. If ever’ (here her voice lost some firmness),—‘if ever you go away from me,—from this place, I mean,—and marry, and settle in a new home elsewhere for good, and forget me, you must take these things, equatorial and all, and never tell your wife or anybody how they came to be yours.’
‘I wish I could do something more for you!’ exclaimed the much-moved astronomer. ‘If you could but share my fame,—supposing I get any, which I may die before doing,—it would be a little compensation. As to my going away and marrying, I certainly shall not. I may go away, but I shall never marry.’
‘Why not?’
‘A beloved science is enough wife for me,—combined, perhaps, with a little warm friendship with one of kindred pursuits.’
‘Who is the friend of kindred pursuits?’
‘Yourself I should like it to be.’
‘You would have to become a woman before I could be that, publicly; or I a man,’ she replied, with dry melancholy.
‘Why I a woman, or you a man, dear Lady Constantine?’