Woven with the Ship Part 15

"How good you are!" she exclaimed, greatly relieved. "But, d.i.c.k, are you rich enough to buy a whole s.h.i.+p yourself?"

"My darling," he answered, "since you kissed me I think I have the mines of Golconda at my command."

"Ah, but kisses won't buy s.h.i.+ps," returned the wise maiden.

"Seriously, Richard?"

"Seriously, dearest, I suppose I am rich enough to buy anything I want; that is, anything in reason that is buyable. No fortune could put a price upon you, I am afraid."

"Nonsense, d.i.c.k!" said the girl. "Are you as rich as that?"

"I am of the opinion that I am," he said, somewhat reluctantly; he could not exactly comprehend why. "Does it disappoint you?"

"No, I believe not," she answered, doubtfully. "I never dreamed of such a thing, I'll admit. I always thought we would have a little cottage somewhere----"

"We?" joyfully.

"Of course. We. I was waiting for you, you know."

"Well, dearest, I hope you will become accustomed to something larger than a cottage. Money has some advantages, you know."

"I doubt not I shall if you will teach me. Oh, d.i.c.k, I am so happy! I feel so sorry for that other girl."

"What other girl?" he asked, faintly conscience-smitten.

"Josephine, you know. The girl you saved."

Her words struck him like a blow. They brought him to himself. He had to tell her the truth. They were by this time sitting side by side on the gun-carriage on the little platform overlooking the brow of the hill.

"Emily, dearest," said Revere, desperately. He hated to do it; he told himself that he was a fool to say anything, yet her presence and her trust compelled him. "I have something to confess to you. I cannot allow a shadow of deceit to rest on our happiness this heavenly night, and even though it hurts you----"

"Tell me, d.i.c.k," she said, as he lingered, reluctant to speak, "whatever it may be. I think I have had happiness enough to last a lifetime as it is; and you love me, don't you? It is not that you do not?"

"Love you? I wors.h.i.+p you!"

"Then nothing can matter much," she interrupted.

"But I must say it," he persevered; "I am--I was engaged to marry----"

"Josephine?" a note of terror in the exclamation.

"Yes," with great contrition.

There was a long silence. The girl shrank away from him. She hid her face in her hands, but she did not weep. That would come later. Was she not to be happy, after all?

He felt so guilty and conscience-stricken that he made no attempt to restrain her movement of avoidance, although he longed to take her in his arms again.

"Oh, Richard, how could you?" she said at last, the misery and reproach in her voice cutting him to the heart.

"I could not help it."

It was the old answer that seems so weak, so futile, so foolish, and yet the only answer that could be given; a vague reply, and yet she comprehended.

"I've been a mean coward," he exclaimed. "But at least I love you, and I could not help it."

"Yes, I believe that--that you love me, I mean,--but you could have helped it," she answered, faintly.

"Well, I ought to have helped it," he admitted, in honest misery; "but I love you, and before you it was hard to be silent."

"But you loved the other girl before?"

"No, never, I swear to you!"

"Look me in the face, Richard."

She turned him about in the moonlight and gazed at him keenly, pa.s.sionately, hungrily almost. He met her glance undaunted. The incubus of the secret was lifted from him--he was another man, even though still bound.

"Emily, I swear to you that my heart has never beat quicker at the thought of her since I have known her. Believe that."

"Yes, I do believe," said the girl, trustingly, at last.

"It is true, and you may. It was an engagement entered into as a sort of family affair, and I never cared anything about it one way or the other. I thought it would be rather pleasant----"

"Is that all?"

"Yes, on my honor, until I met you; and then I knew it could never be."

"You said you _were_ engaged to her, Richard. What do you mean by that?"

"As soon as I could after I had spoken to you this afternoon I wrote to her, telling her the truth about my love for you and giving her a chance to break the engagement."

"Where is the letter?"

"It is gone."

"Suppose she will not break it?"

"She will, of course."

"d.i.c.k, I know that she loves you. I know she won't give you up. Oh, my heart is breaking!"

"Nonsense; she doesn't love me at all!"

"No woman could help it who knew you as I do," decidedly.

"No one knows me as you do, dearest. To no one have I ever shown my heart, myself, as I have shown them to you. She must give me up; she shall! I tell you I will marry no woman but you, no matter what happens!"

"And I, d.i.c.k, will marry no one but you. But, oh, the pity of it! Why didn't I know you before?"

"But you believe me, don't you, that I love you, only you?"