"Don't promise to marry him!" cried Sam, as we passed through the
door-way. "But she will,--I know she will!" he added, as I closed the
door.
He spoke in a pitiful tone, and his voice trembled. I was surprised that
he showed so much feeling.
"Rachel," said I, as soon as we were alone, "won't you answer me now?
You must know how much I love you. Will you be my wife?"
"Oh, Mr. Browne, I cannot! I cannot!" she whispered.
I was silent, for my fears came uppermost. Pressing one hand to my
forehead, I thought of a thousand things in a moment. Nothing seemed
more probable than that she should already have a lover across the sea.
Seeing my distress, she spoke.
"Don't think, Mr. Browne," she began, earnestly, "that it is because I
do not"--
There she stopped. I gazed eagerly in her face. It was strangely
agitated. I should hardly have known my calm, white-faced Rachel. Just
then I heard the stage stop at the bars.
"Oh, Rachel!" I cried, "go on! What mustn't I think? What shall I
think?"
"Don't think me ungrateful,--you have been so kind," she said, softly.
"And is that all?" I asked.
"Stage ready!" called out the driver.
I opened the door, to show that I was coming; then, taking her hand, I
said,--
"Good bye, Rachel! And so--you can't love me!"
An expression of pain crossed her face. She leaned against the wall, but
did not speak.
"Hurry up there!" shouted the driver.
"Yes, yes!" I cried, impatiently.
"If you can't speak," I went on to Rachel, "press my hand, if you can
love me,--now, for I am going. Good bye!"
She did not press my hand, and I could not go.
"You can't say you love me," I cried; "then say you don't. Anything
rather than this doubt."
"Oh, Mr. Browne!" she replied, at last, "I can't say anything--but--good
bye!"
"Good bye, then," I said, sadly. "But shall you still live here?"
"Oh, no!" she exclaimed, earnestly; "you can't think that I"--
Here she stopped, and glanced towards the kitchen-door.
"No," said I, "I won't think it. But where will you stay?"
"With Mrs. James. You know her. I have already spoken with her."
The tramp of the driver was now heard, approaching.
"Any passenger here bound for Boston?"
"Yes, Sir," I answered, and with one more whispered good-bye, one wring
of the hand, I passed out, gave my bundle to the driver, and entered the
coach.
What a ride home that was! What a half-day of doubting, hoping,
despairing! I had not before realized how sure I had been of her
accepting me; and now that I felt how much I loved her, and thought of
the many causes which might separate us, I could not but say over in my
heart the sorrowful words of poor Sam,--"I shall never _be_ anybody, if
she won't have me." Still, though not accepted, I could not feel
refused; for what was it I read in her face? why so agitated? That she
struggled with some strong feeling was evident. The remembrance,
perhaps, of a former love.
In this tumult, this miserable condition, I reached home, where,
spreading my old calmness over my new agitation, I received, as best I
might, the joyful greeting of Fanny, the heartfelt welcome of Aunt
Huldah. I tried hard to be my own old self, and could not but hope that
even my sharp-eyed sister was blinded. But no sooner had I entered my
room for the night, no sooner had I thrown myself into my deep-cushioned
arm-chair, than this lively sprite entered, on her way to bed. She
seated herself on the trunk close by me, laid her hand upon my arm, and
said,--
"What is it, Charley?"
"What, Fanny?" I asked.
"Now, Charley," said she, "you might as well speak out at once. Why was
I left, when all the rest were taken, but that you might have at least
_one_ that you loved to tell your troubles to? Come, now! Take off that
manner of yours; you might as well, for I can see right through it. You
will feel better to let everything out,--and then, who knows but I might
help you?"
Sure enough. It was strange, considering what Fanny had always been to
me, that this had not occurred to my own mind. How natural it seemed now
to tell her all about it! What a relief it would be! But how should I
begin? I shrank from it. I began to come round to my first position. It
seemed as if the corner of my heart which held Rachel was a holy of
holies, too sacred to be entered even by my dear, good sister. While I
was thinking, she watched my face.
"Ah!" said she, "I see you don't know how to begin, and that I must both
listen and talk. Give me your hand. Haven't I got gypsy eyes? I will
tell your fortune."
Dear little bright-faced Fanny! I smiled a real smile when she took my
hand.
"It is about a girl?" she said, half inquiringly.