, must, all be his own now. On no other supposition was it
possible that she should allow her hand to remain thus clasped within
his own. He had only to ask. Ah, but that was the difficulty. Did a
minute suffice for all this? Nay, perhaps it might be more than a
minute.

"Mrs. Bold--" at last he said and then stopped himself.

If he could not speak, how was she to do so? He had called her by her
name, the same name that any merest stranger would have used! She
withdrew her hand from his and moved as though to return to her seat.
"Eleanor!" he then said in his softest tone, as though the courage of
a lover were as yet but half-assumed, as though he were still afraid
of giving offence by the freedom which he took. She looked slowly,
gently, almost piteously up into his face. There was at any rate no
anger there to deter him.

"Eleanor!" he again exclaimed, and in a moment he had her clasped to
his bosom. How this was done, whether the doing was with him or her,
whether she had flown thither conquered by the tenderness of his
voice, or he with a violence not likely to give offence had drawn her
to his breast, neither of them knew; nor can I declare. There was
now that sympathy between them which hardly admitted of individual
motion. They were one and the same--one flesh--one spirit--one life.

"Eleanor, my own Eleanor, my own, my wife!" She ventured to look up at
him through her tears, and he, bowing his face down over hers, pressed
his lips upon her brow--his virgin lips, which, since a beard first
grew upon his chin, had never yet tasted the luxury of a woman's
cheek.

She had been told that her yea must be yea, or her nay, nay, but she
was called on for neither the one nor the other. She told Miss Thorne
that she was engaged to Mr. Arabin, but no such words had passed
between them, no promises had been asked or given.

"Oh, let me go," said she, "let me go now. I am too happy to
remain--let me go, that I may be alone." He did not try to hinder
her; he did not repeat the kiss; he did not press another on her
lips. He might have done so, had he been so minded. She was now all
his own. He took his arm from round her waist, his arm that was
trembling with a new delight, and let her go. She fled like a roe to
her own chamber, and then, having turned the bolt, she enjoyed the
full luxury of her love. She idolised, almost worshipped this man
who had so meekly begged her pardon. And he was now her own. Oh, how
she wept