Winter passed and summer came again. The war was virtually at an end, and though the city was still retained by the British, yet no blood had been shed for some time.
It was a moonlight evening in July, and a pleasant breeze swept softly through the branches of the old pear-tree which stood near the dwelling of Mrs. Vale.
On a seat under the tree sat Nat Ernshaw and Catherine Vale; at their feet an old friend, the dog Lion, who appeared to regard the two with a look of grave curiosity. Sitting under the tree there, with the pale light of the moon shining down upon them, the three made a picture. Nat Ernshaw, with his fine, manly countenance, weather-beaten and marked with a single scar upon his brow, and that more than half-hidden by his hair; Catherine Vale, with her fair face, golden hair, and loving eyes; Lion, huge as he was, looking pleasant as he gazed up into the face of his mistress.
Tenderly taking the hand of his companion, Ernshaw, after a momentary silence, said:
“There is something, Kate, of which I have long wished to speak, but the distracted state of the country prevented my doing so. For years—almost from the hour of our first acquaintance—no true man could say that his head sat firmly upon his shoulders. Life has been, at the most, held on slender tenure, and hearthstones have been desecrated on short notice. Now it is, I think, otherwise. The struggle for freedom is all but ended; independence is placed within our grasp, and with an assurance which I could not otherwise feel, I can speak my feelings and wishes. I love you, Kate. Not with a fierce passion, but with a hopeful, manly, lasting love. We have known each other long and, I think, well. Such as I am you see me. I profess not to be free from faults, nor to be wholly made up of virtues. From the fullness of an unchecked spirit I have done things which to others might seem wrong; but they were sins of the head, not of the heart. I can offer you a hand, a home, and a heart. Knowing me as you do, having tried my affection as you have, will you be mine?”
For some moments Catherine did not reply, but sat gazing on the ground. Though she had often done so before, she wished again to analyze her heart, and scrutinize closely, calmly, the feelings which she felt she entertained for Nathaniel.
Under this very tree, two years ago, had Reginald Preston pleaded his love. What an issue that profession brought forth! She recalled her abduction—her solitary confinement—the horrid threats of the British captain—Ernshaw’s daring—his striking down of the wretch, and his rescue of her—the dying declaration of Turner; all these incidents came up again before her, and though they touched her heart with a sense of sadness, how they all pleaded for the man at her side!
“I have been thinking,” she at length calmly said, “as I have, I acknowledge, thought before, of you and your claim upon me. We have known each other long, and have reason to believe that we know each other truly. I have looked into my heart, and find that it fully and entirely responds to your own in its hopes, wishes, love, and confidence. I say then, in all the truth of my own soul, that I love you as a woman should love the man she would claim as her husband, and that, as far as my consent goes, my hand and heart are yours. I will be your wife, Nathaniel.”
Catherine’s manner was deliberate, unimpassioned; but her whole being stood looking from her eyes, and her sweet face lit up like a morning in June. Ernshaw’s strong nature had met its entire response.