The exaltation of his voice, the spiritual glory of his upturned eyes, the sudden burst of fervor, the overmastering force of his impetuous manhood, hurried Mary’s imagination to giddy heights. She could have fallen down and worshipped him.
“Come,” said he, more gently; “take that seat and listen to me for a moment.”
She made as though she would place two fingers on his lips.
“No!” said he (placing his lips on the two fingers). “Since you wish it, I will leave unsaid what I purposed saying. It is a strange whim on your part, but an altogether charming one to me, since it gives me the right to believe that you value me for myself alone. I shall, therefore, respect this fancy of yours as long as you desire. But if I may not tell you who I am, I may at least say what I am not. I am not an adventurer. You toss your head; your faith is lovely, but you know I might have been one. No? Well, at any rate, I am not. I am, in fact, your equal in social position; so that, if you can spare a place for me in your heart, without knowing who I am, you will not have to expel me when you condescend to hear what I have to say.”
“Do you know,” said Mary, with a merry twinkle in her eyes, “I believe you are just dying to tell me all about yourself?”
“And you wild to have me do so.”
The sun sparkled upon the River, the waves murmured softly at their feet, beneath a gentle breeze laden with the mysterious breath of awakening spring; and these two sat there bantering one another, like children, gleefully. Mary no longer recognized the man who sat before her. Every line had passed from his face; and but for his Olympic beard, he might have seemed a great jolly boy just come home for his holidays. She could not take her eyes off his face. She was scrutinizing it, wondering where could be lurking those ambuscades of passion that she thought she had detected more than once. And the fire-darting flashes, where were they hidden, beneath those ingenuous glances, so tender, so soft, so caressing?
CHAPTER LIV.
To four people at Elmington that was a happy week. I suspect it was rather a dull one to every one else.
The friendship of Alice and Mary had renewed its youth. Each had told the other everything. That is, they did what they could; for there was always no end left to tell. Not a word was wasted, not a moment spent on any subject but one. Never had two young men been more talked about.