"I have not offered it to you, Miss Herold."
She looked up, still flushed and brilliant eyed; then her face changed
softly. "I know it. I was foolishly sensitive. I know you couldn't offer
such a thing to me. But I wish I knew whether we could accept for Jim.
He is such a darling--so intelligent and perfectly crazy for an
education. I've saved a little--that's why I wanted you to hire me for
your bayman. You see I don't spend anything on myself," she added, with
a blush.
Marche was fighting hard for self-restraint; he was young and romantic,
and his heart was very full. "What I'd like to do," he said, "would be
to send Jim to some first-rate school until he is ready for college.
Then I'd like to see him through college, and, if he cared for it, start
him with me in business."
"Oh," she cried softly, "is it possible! Is there--can any man really do
such heavenly things? Have you any idea what you are saying? Do you
realize what you are doing to me--with every word you utter?"
"What am I doing to--to you?" he asked unsteadily.
"Making me your slave," she said, in a low voice, thrilling with
generous passion. "Even for the thought--even if father will not
accept--what you have said to me to-night has put me in your debt
forever. Truly--truly, I know what friendship is, now."
She clasped her hands tightly and said something else, sweetly
incoherent; and, in the starlight, Marche saw the tears sparkling on her
lashes.
With that he sprang nervously to the shore and began to tramp up and
down the shingle, his mind in a whirl, every sense, common or the
contrary, clamoring for finality--urging him to tell her the truth--tell
her that he loved her, that he wanted her--her alone, out of all the
world of women--that it was for love and for her, and for love of her,
that he offered anything, did anything, thought anything now under the
high stars or under the circling sun.
And now, as he tramped savagely to and fro, he realized that he had
begun wrong; that he should have told her he loved her first of all, and
then acted, not promised.
Would she look on his offer scornfully, now? Would she see, in what he
asked of her, a bribe desired for the offer he had made in her brother's
behalf? She did not love him. How could she, in a week? Never had there
been even a hint of sentiment between them. What would she think--this
young girl, so tranquilly confident in her friendship for him--what
would she think of him and his love? He knew there was nothing
mercenary or material in her character; he knew she was young, sweet
tempered, reticent concerning herself, clean hearted, and proud. How
could he come blundering through the boundaries of her friendship with
such an avowal, at a moment's notice?