CHAPTER XVII

“My own, own Husband”

Yes;—­it had come at last.  As one may imagine to be the certainty of paradise to the doubting, fearful, all but despairing soul when it has passed through the gates of death and found in new worlds a reality of assured bliss, so was the assurance to her, conveyed by that simple request, “Mary, say that you will be my wife.”  It did not seem to her that any answer was necessary.  Will it be required that the spirit shall assent to its entrance into Elysium?  Was there room for doubt?  He would never go back from his word now.  He would not have spoken the word had he not been quite, quite certain.  And he had loved her all that time, when she was so hard to him!  It must have been so.  He had loved her, this bright one, even when he thought that she was to be given to that clay-bound rustic lover!  Perhaps that was the sweetest of it all, though in draining the sweet draught she had to accuse herself of hardness, blindness and injustice.  Could it be real?  Was it true that she had her foot firmly placed in Paradise?  He was there, close to her, with his arm still round her, and her fingers grasped within his.  The word wife was still in her ears,—­surely the sweetest word in all the language!  What protestation of love could have been so eloquent as that question?  “Will you be my wife?” No true man, she thought, ever ought to ask the question in any other form.  But her eyes were still full of tears, and as she went she knew not where she was going.  She had forgotten all her surroundings, being only aware that he was with her, and that no other eyes were on them.

Then there was another stile on reaching which he withdrew his arm and stood facing her with his back leaning against it.  “Why do you weep?” he said;—­“and, Mary, why do you not answer my question?  If there be anybody else you must tell me now.”

“There is nobody else,” she said almost angrily.  “There never was.  There never could be.”

“And yet there was somebody!” She pouted her lips at him, glancing up into his face for half a second, and then again hung her head down.  “Mary, do not grudge me my delight”

“No;—­no;—­no!”

“But you do.”

“No.  If there can be delight to you in so poor a thing, have it all.”

“Then you must kiss me, dear.”  She gently came to him,—­oh so gently,—­and with her head still hanging, creeping towards his shoulder, thinking perhaps that the motion should have been his, but still obeying him, and then, leaning against him, seemed as though she would stoop with her lips to his hand.  But this he did not endure.  Seizing her quickly in his arms he drew her up, till her not unwilling face was close to his, and there he kept her till she was almost frightened by his violence.  “And now, Mary, what do you say to my question?  It has to be answered.”

“You know.”