Miss
Bartram, you are very good."
He paused; but with all her tact and social experience, she did not
know what to say.
"Would you do one little thing for me--not for the ferns, that was
nothing--no more than you do, without thinking, for all your
friends?"
"Oh, surely!" she said.
"Might I--might I--now,--there'll be no chance tomorrow,--shake
hands with you?"
The words seemed to be forced from him by the strength of a fierce
will. Both stopped, involuntarily.
"It's quite dry, you see," said he, offering his hand. Her own
sank upon it, palm to palm, and the fingers softly closed over
each, as if with the passion and sweetness of a kiss. Miss
Bartram's heart came to her eyes, and read, at last, the question
in Leonard's. It was: "I as man, and you, as woman, are equals;
will you give me time to reach you?" What her eyes replied she
knew not. A mighty influence drew her on, and a mighty doubt and
dread restrained her. One said: "Here is your lover, your
husband, your cherished partner, left by fate below your station,
yet whom you may lift to your side! Shall man, alone, crown the
humble maiden,--stoop to love, and, loving, ennoble? Be you the
queen, and love him by the royal right of womanhood!" But the
other sternly whispered: "How shall your fine and delicate fibres
be knit into this coarse texture? Ignorance, which years cannot
wash away,--low instincts, what do YOU know?--all the servile
side of life, which is turned from you,--what madness to choose
this, because some current of earthly magnetism sets along your
nerves? He loves you: what of that? You are a higher being to
him, and he stupidly adores you.
Pages:
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391