"An impression of the mountains, perhaps?" she said slyly.
"No; a much more precious impression than that."
"Of the lakes?"
"No. The lakes have not grown dearer and dearer in remembrance to me
every day. The lakes are not associated with my happiness in the
present, and my hopes in the future. Marguerite! all that makes life
worth having hangs, for me, on a word from your lips. Marguerite! I
love you!"
Her head drooped as he took her hand. He drew her to him, and looked at
her. The tears escaped from her downcast eyes, and fell slowly over her
cheeks.
"O, Mr. Vendale," she said sadly, "it would have been kinder to have kept
your secret. Have you forgotten the distance between us? It can never,
never be!"
"There can be but one distance between us, Marguerite--a distance of your
making. My love, my darling, there is no higher rank in goodness, there
is no higher rank in beauty, than yours! Come! whisper the one little
word which tells me you will be my wife!"
She sighed bitterly. "Think of your family," she murmured; "and think of
mine!"
Vendale drew her a little nearer to him.
"If you dwell on such an obstacle as that," he said, "I shall think but
one thought--I shall think I have offended you."
She started, and looked up. "O, no!" she exclaimed innocently. The
instant the words passed her lips, she saw the construction that might be
placed on them. Her confession had escaped her in spite of herself.
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