“Sudden!” exclaimed Jones. “My love may have been sudden; but, for weeks, for months, it has taken possession of me. But, pardon me, madam,” he added, in a calmer tone. “Do not mistake me. I know too well that I dare not hope; but an humble offering may be laid upon a lofty shrine. All I ask is your compassion; say only you pity me, and I shall embalm the words in my memory for ever!”
Miss Manners did pity him; but begged him, as he valued his own happiness, to banish from his mind all such thoughts as he had expressed.
“Ah, madam,” said he, “ask me to part with life, and I may obey you; but, while life remains, I never can cease to love you.”
They had now reached the entrance to the garden; and Miss Manners held out her hand, saying—
“Good night.”
Jones took the hand. There was no glove on it; and, gently raising it, he pressed it to his lips.
“Madam,” he articulated, “good night; farewell. While you are asleep, I shall be thinking of you. On this road, gazing on the window of the room in which I think you are, I shall enjoy more rest than anywhere else I can go.”
He was about to add something more; but his utterance became choked; and, again pressing her hand to his lips, while a tear fell on it, he turned abruptly away. Miss Manners said not a word—her heart was too full—but closed the gate behind her and disappeared. Jones listened. He heard her step as she went up the gravel walk, and he heard nothing more. The night was, by this time, fearfully dark, and everything around him was silent. He walked on a short distance, returned, and again walked on. His mind was whirling and confused. He tried to recollect every word which Miss Manners had said, and by this means to get at the real state of her feelings; but he was too much agitated for reflection. On gaining his lodging, he felt faint, and put himself immediately to bed. All night long he tossed about in sleepless excitement; and, in the morning, fell into a feverish doze, broken by unintelligible dreams. When he awoke, he rose up, and felt so giddy as to be unable to stand, and again went to bed. During the day, he felt shivering and unwell; and, the next day, the same symptoms continued, and with increased violence. Another day arrived—another, and another—and all consciousness left him. Several weeks elapsed, and found him still bedridden, but convalescent; and it was nearly three months before he was enabled to venture out, and then only when the sun was warm.
“You have been long out, Marion,” said Mr. Manners to his daughter, as she returned from her accidental interview with Jones. “I was afraid some accident had befallen you.”
“No,” said Miss Manners, whose eyes were slightly inflamed; for, somehow or other, she had wept before entering the house: “no accident.”