"Yes," I said at length, "I asked her that the day before I left for the war. God bless her! She has the warmest heart in the world, and the most generous nature. Do you know what her answer was, Dorothy?"
"No." 'Twas only her lips moving that formed the word. She was twisting absently the tassel of the bed curtain.
"She asked me if I loved her."
My lady glanced up with a start, then looked me searchingly through and through.
"And you?" she said, in the same inaudible way.
"I could answer nothing. 'Twas because of her father's dying wish I asked her, and she guessed that same. I would not tell her a lie, for only the one woman lives whom I love, and whom I have loved ever since we were children together among the strawberries. Need I say that that woman is you, Dorothy? I loved you before we sailed to Carvel Hall between my grandfather's knees, and I will love you till death claims me."
Then it seemed as if my heart had stopped beating. But the snowy apron upon her breast fluttered like a sail stirring in the wind, her head was high, and her eyes were far away. Even my voice sounded in the distance as I continued:
"Will you be the mistress of Carvel Hall, Dorothy? Hallowed is the day that I can ask it."
What of this earth may excel in sweetness the surrender of that proud and noble nature! And her words, my dears, shall be sacred to you, too, who are descended from her. She bent forward a little, those deep blue eyes gazing full into my own with a fondness to make me tremble.
"Dear Richard," she said, "I believe I have loved you always. If I have been wilful and wicked, I have suffered more than you know—even as I have made you suffer."