"Then be mine," said he, seizing her hand again, "from this very hour!"
An instant she seemed to waver; then came over her the memory of her father's injunction,—the mystery, too, that overshadowed her own life.
"I cannot,—I cannot, Reuben!"
"Is this final?" said he, calmly.
"Final."
She sighed it rather than spoke aloud; the next instant she had slipped away through the shrubbery, with a swift, cruel rustle of her silken dress, toward the parsonage.
Reuben lingered in the orchard until he saw the light flashing through the muslin hangings of her window. She had gone early to her chamber. She had kissed the crucifix that was her mother's with a fervor that sprang as much from devotion as from sentiment. She had sobbed out her prayer, and with sobs had buried her sweet face in the pillow.
Could Reuben have seen or conceived all this, he might have acted differently.
As it was, he entered the Doctor's study an hour later, with the utmost apparent coolness.
"Well, father," said he, "I have offered marriage to your motherless and pious French protégée, and she declines."