"England is not much to me, Miss, except as a name."
"O, so true an Englishman should not say that!--Are you not well
to-night, Davis?" Very kindly, and with a quick change.
"Quite well, Miss."
"Are you sure? Your voice sounds altered in my hearing."
"No, Miss, I am a stronger man than ever. But, England is nothing to
me."
Miss Maryon sat silent for so long a while, that I believed she had done
speaking to me for one time. However, she had not; for by-and-by she
said in a distinct clear tone:
"No, good friend; you must not say that England is nothing to you. It is
to be much to you, yet--everything to you. You have to take back to
England the good name you have earned here, and the gratitude and
attachment and respect you have won here: and you have to make some good
English girl very happy and proud, by marrying her; and I shall one day
see her, I hope, and make her happier and prouder still, by telling her
what noble services her husband's were in South America, and what a noble
friend he was to me there."
Though she spoke these kind words in a cheering manner, she spoke them
compassionately. I said nothing. It will appear to be another strange
confession, that I paced to and fro, within call, all that night, a most
unhappy man, reproaching myself all the night long.
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