"It might not be for some men, but it is for me, because I want you
very much. Let people say what they will, if you say yes I am
satisfied. You shall not regret it, Christie; I'll do my best to
make you happy; you shall travel wherever I can go with you, have
what you like, if possible, and when we come back by and by, you
shall take your place in the world as my wife. You will fill it
well, I fancy, and I shall be a happy man. I've had my own way all
my life, and I mean to have it now, so smile, and say, 'Yes,
Philip,' like a sweet soul, as you are."
But Christie did not smile, and felt no inclination to say "Yes,
Philip," for that last speech of his jarred on her ear. The tone of
unconscious condescension in it wounded the woman's sensitive pride;
self was too apparent, and the most generous words seemed to her
like bribes. This was not the lover she had dreamed of, the brave,
true man who gave her all, and felt it could not half repay the
treasure of her innocent, first love. This was not the happiness she
had hoped for, the perfect faith, the glad surrender, the sweet
content that made all things possible, and changed this work-a-day
world into a heaven while the joy lasted.
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