What Floy would have answered to her lover’s ardent question was lost
in the rumble and noise of the carriage wheels as the driver reined up
his horses in front of Bird’s Nest Cottage, and loudly announced:
“Here we are!”
Beresford handed Floy out, and walked through the cottage gate up to
the door with her, whispering under the leafy shade of the honeysuckle
vines a tremulous question:
“Will you give me love for love, darling Floy? Will you marry me?”
She tried to draw away the hand he held, murmuring, agitatedly:
“You--you have no right to talk to me like this. You are engaged to
Maybelle.”
Her voice broke in a sob, and he put his arm around her, drawing her
close to his side, hoping that the shadow of the vines was dense enough
to prevent the inquisitive driver from watching their love-making.
“I’m _not_ engaged to Maybelle; never _was_, either. What made you
think so, my sweet one?” he whispered.
“Otho Maury told me so the night before the picnic. He said you were to
marry his sister in the fall.”
“I’ll be shot if I do! That is another of Otho’s lies, my pet. The wish
was father to the statement. But I never thought of marrying Maybelle,
and they know it. You are my only sweetheart, dearest, and unless you
promise to marry me, I shall sail the seas over with a broken heart
to-morrow.”
“Oh!” she sighed, doubtfully.
“It’s true, dearest, and you must answer me quickly, for that driver
is getting impatient, don’t you know? And I can not come back for an
answer to-morrow, for I’ll be on my way to New York before your blue
eyes see the light in the morning, and the day after I sail for Europe,
to be absent, at the shortest possible time, a month. And you won’t be
so cruel as to send me away in despair?”
She had always thought, in her maidenly dreams of love, that she should
not answer yes to her lover’s first proposal; she would keep him in
suspense awhile; but at the thought of the long sea voyage, her tender
heart quaked. What if he should be drowned, her darling boy, and never
know she loved him so dearly?
“Answer me,” he pleaded; and she sighed:
“It is so sudden.”
Beresford laughed low and happily.
“Yes, Love was born full grown, was he not? Love at first sight, and
it is delicious so. Oh, Floy, is it hopeless? Don’t you love me just a
little after all?”
“Not a little--a whole world full,” she whispered, carried out of
herself by his passion.
Just then the gruff driver bawled irascibly:
“Ain’t you never coming, sir? It’ll soon be daylight!”
Beresford caught her in his arms, pressing her tightly to his heart, as
he whispered:
“You hear that impatient wretch! I must leave you, darling, but I
shall be back in a month, and I’ll write you while I’m gone. Wear this
ring, but keep our sweet secret till I give you leave to speak. I must
conciliate my little world first, you know. One kiss, darling, and
don’t forget your absent boy.”
He kissed the sweet lips a dozen times, and felt her tears raining down
her cheeks till they mixed their salty taste with the sweetness of her
mouth. She could not speak one word more after her sweet impulsive
avowal of her love, only trembled in his arms, with tears in her eyes
and smiles on her lips, like April weather, till he snatched one last
passionate kiss, and tore himself away.
Floy dashed the tears from her eyes and listened sadly to the carriage
wheels as they rolled away, then turning back to the cottage door,
knocked loudly for admittance.