I cannot
speak as I would like; my love won't let itself be put in words.
But, oh! darling, say you'll believe me, and that you'll be mine."
She could not speak at once; her words would not come.
"Mary, they say silence gives consent; is it so?" he whispered.
Now or never the effort must be made.
"No! it does not with me." Her voice was calm, although she
trembled from head to foot. "I will always be your friend, Jem, but
I can never be your wife."
"Not my wife?" said he mournfully. "O Mary, think awhile! you
cannot be my friend if you will not be my wife. At least, I can
never be content to be only your friend. Do think awhile! If you
say No, you will make me hopeless, desperate. It's no love of
yesterday. It has made the very groundwork of all that people call
good in me. I don't know what I shall be if you won't have me.
And, Mary, think how glad your father would be! It may sound vain,
but he's told me more than once how much he should like to see us
two married."
Jem intended this for a powerful argument, but in Mary's present
mood it told against him more than anything; for it suggested the
false and foolish idea that her father, in his evident anxiety to
promote her marriage with Jem, had been speaking to him on the
subject with some degree of solicitation.
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