With a little gasp Jenny’s sobs were stilled, and quite motionless, looking down, she clung to Basil like a thing from which all life was gone. The words sank into her mind slowly, and she puzzled over them as though they were said in a language she barely understood; and then, still silent, she began to tremble.
“Say that again, Basil,” she whispered, and after a pause: “Did you mean it? Can you bring yourself to marry me?”
She stood up and looked at him, dishevelled and beautiful, a tragic figure in whose unutterable woe was a most noble pathos.
“I’m only a barmaid, Basil.”
“You’re the mother of my child, and I love you,” he answered gravely. “I’ve always longed to have children, Jenny, and you’ve made me very proud and very happy.”
Her eyes shone with tears, and into her anxious, terror-stricken face came a look of such ecstatic happiness that Basil felt himself ten times rewarded.
“Oh, Basil, you are good. You do mean it, don’t you? And I shall be with you always?”
“Did you think so badly of me as to suppose I would throw you over now?”
“Oh, I was afraid. You’ve cared for me less of late, and I’ve been so unhappy, Basil, but I didn’t dare show it. At first I hadn’t the courage to tell you, because I thought you’d be angry. I knew you wouldn’t let me starve, but you might just have given me money and told me to go.”
He kissed her hands, aflame as never before with her radiant beauty.