Here at length he stopped to gain breath, and
the embarrassment of his situation arose in formidable array against
him. He was a man of few words, naturally diffident of his colloquial
powers, and easily confused and abashed. In what manner was he to
address her? To him the language of flattery and compliment was unknown.
He had never said a polite thing to a woman in his life. Unaccustomed to
the society of ladies, he was still more unaccustomed to woo; how then
was he to unfold the state of his heart to the object of his love? The
longer he pondered over the subject, the more awkward and irresolute he
felt. His usual fortitude forsook him, and he determined to relinquish a
project so ridiculous, or to postpone it to some more favorable moment.
His hand still rested upon the latch of the gate, when his meditations
were dispelled by a soft strain of music, which floated forth upon the
balmy air, harmonizing with the quiet beauty of the landscape which was
illumined by the last rays of a gorgeous summer sunset.
Then came a pause in the music, and the silence was filled with the
melodious voice of Elinor Wildegrave. She sang a sweet plaintive ditty,
and the tones of her voice had power to soften and subdue the rugged
nature of Mark Hurdlestone. His knees trembled, his heart beat faintly,
and tears, for the first time since his querulous infancy, moistened his
eyes.
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