“It is not nonsense to me. I am deeply in earnest. I love you, Conny, and shan’t be happy unless you love me in return.”
Her head dropped again. My heart thumped like an Irish valet’s fist upon a door. I strained my ear to catch the breathless whisper, but no whisper came. Raising her head suddenly, she said,
“It is mamma’s wish that I should marry you. She came to my room last night, and told me to prepare for an offer of marriage. I think you ought to have spoken to me first, before speaking to her. It would have been fairer.”
“Spoken to her!” I exclaimed, greatly astonished. “Why, I have never breathed my feelings for you to a living creature.”
“How could she have known?”
“She must have guessed the truth by my manner. She must have seen, as everybody with eyes must, that I was in love with you. I am very glad to have her sanction; but I can assure you I have never yet sought it.”
Here came another pause, and then I said, “I hope you believe me.”
“Oh yes; but I was pained when mamma said she wished me to accept you if you proposed, because—because I haven’t had time to fall in love with you yet, Charlie.”
Here I caught hold of her hand, and said—I don’t know what. What man does know what he says when he makes love? It is wonderful that I can recollect so much as I have set down. I doubt if even Boswell, who was born with a note-book in his hand, could remember all the observations he had occasion to make, both to the lady he did marry and to the great number of ladies he didn’t marry. I don’t think I talked like a hero. I don’t fancy I made use of any of those striking and powerful expressions which I strongly suspect must have been first brought into fashion among novelists by good-natured elderly women, who had either never experienced or had forgotten the characteristics of love-making among thinking beings. To conceal nothing, I don’t think I said very much at all. “Will you love me?” and “Ho, won’t you love me?” and “Ah! can’t you love me?” and “Please, try to love me,” with an occasional Oh and a No, and a sigh, and a smile, and a blush from her, comprise, Eugenio, pretty much all that was said and done between us. I looked without sighing, and she sighed without looking. I sink—sank—sunk my voice into a whisper, and was about to express a very poetical and touching sentiment, when she interrupted me by crying out, “Isn’t that seven o’clock striking?” and before I could collect my senses, so as to enable me to listen to the distant bell and answer her, behold! she exclaimed, “I will be back in a few minutes,” and ran—yes, ran—with great speed and surprising grace, down the grounds and out of sight.
Much astonished, I beheld her disappear, and then pulling out a cigar, lighted it, and sank, carefully, and after a narrow inspection, upon the grass, at the foot of a tree, and there, like Tityrus, supine but not careless laid, waited for her to return. I tried to think over what I had said to her, and how, on the whole, it struck me, she had received my fervid language; but I found myself chiefly wondering what on earth had drawn her away so hastily, and what connection seven o’clock could have with a proceeding so entirely disagreeable and undesirable.