"Mary Ellen," said I, with a sudden jerk, as it were, "it can't be that
Warren Luce--that he is the one whom--that--that you"--And here I
stopped.
"I think Warren Luce has great power over me," said she, calmly, as if
coolly scanning her own feelings; "but you said right. He is not the one
whom--that"--
And here she smiled, as if at the thought of my broken-off sentences,
but without looking up.
"My dear girl," said I, earnestly, and taking a forward step,--"forgive
me, but--I think--I hope--you love David,--don't you?"
'Twas a bold question, and I knew it; but I was thinking how pleasant
'twould be to carry good tidings to my friend.
"I love his goodness," said she, just as calmly as before. "And I love
him for loving me. I wish he was happy. I hope no harm will come to him.
I would do everything for him,--but"--and here her voice fell--"_I don't
love him as Jane loved_."
"_Jane who_?" I asked, in surprise.
"Jane Eyre."
Here was a dilemma for me. What should I say next? What business had I,
meddling with a young girl's heart? I had been almost sure of finding
soundings, yet here I was in deep water! And, with all my pains, what
had I accomplished?
She arose, and moved towards the house.
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