Wired Love, Ella Cheever Thayer [hot novels to read .txt] 📗

“Thank you, Clem; and I hope we may always be the same friends.”

At this Clem took an impetuous step towards her, and would have said⁠—who can tell what?⁠—had not at the same moment Mrs. Simonson, very much out of breath, come up with them. Nattie was not sorry. She had wished to say to him what she had, that he might not think her changed manner of late had been caused by any feeling of dislike, and might understand she wished him success with Cyn. But she had no desire to prolong the interview, and gladly walked on by the side of the puffing Mrs. Simonson.

Clem, however, looked displeased, and followed with a thoughtful face; so thoughtful that Mrs. Simonson noticed and wondered at his preoccupation.

Meanwhile, Cyn, with Jo, were far in advance, and had turned into a bypath that led toward a slight rising, sauntering on, Cyn talking merrily, Jo unusually quiet, until suddenly stopping, she exclaimed,

“Dear me! we have lost sight of everyone! Had we not better return?”

“No! I do not want to!” answered Jo, bluntly.

“Do you not? As you say, only we must not lose them. Possibly they may stroll this way; shall we sit down?” and without waiting for a response Cyn seated herself on a big rock by the side of the pathway.

Although Jo was not romantic, he had an artist-eye, and could not but note the beauty of the scene before him, a scene he did not need to reproduce on canvas to remember ever after;⁠—the mountains in the background, the narrow path sloping down from the near hill to where, on the gray and moss-covered rock, Cyn sat, her dark eyes mellow with the summer sunshine, and the cherry ribbons of her hat giving the requisite touch of color to make the picture perfect.

For a moment he stood in silent admiration, then, taking off his hat, and smoothing down his shaven locks, he said,

“To tell the truth, Cyn, I do hope they will not stroll this way. They are around altogether too much. I never can have a quiet talk with you!”

“I declare, I believe in addition to your being unsentimental, and all that, you are becoming a confirmed grumbler!” exclaimed Cyn, as she caught one of the boughs of the tree overhead and turned a merrily-protesting face towards him.

Jo looked at her, and a queer expression came over his face.

“Am I?” he said, slowly. “Well⁠—would you like to see me sentimental? Would you like to see me make a fool of myself?”

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure!” cried Cyn.

“Then,” exclaimed Jo, planting himself directly in front of her, “here goes! now I am going to astonish you very much, Cyn!”

“Very well! I am all impatience! Go on!”

“But it is no joke!” he replied, in protest to her laughing face. “If I am to make a fool of myself I am going to do it in dead earnest!”

“That is the way, of course,” responded Cyn, but beginning to look a little surprised.

For Jo seemed very much excited, and his manner indicated anything but a jest. Extraordinary creature, that Jo! His next proceeding was even more strange; that was to ask the apparently irrelevant question,

“Do you remember what we were all saying a short time ago, about Fate?”

“Certainly; but are you going to favor me with a dissertation on Fate, instead of making a fool of yourself?”

“No!” was the solemn reply, “have a little patience, Cyn. The fact is, you are my Fate⁠—there is no mistake about it!⁠—and must be either cruel or kind, and there’s no alternative!”

Cyn’s surprise increased visibly.

“I am sure, I do not understand you at all! how queer you are today, Jo!”

“Of course I am queer! when a man throws his theories and hobbies to the winds, and confesses himself conquered, he is apt to be queer, is he not? Can you not understand, that I, Jo Norton, who have always scoffed at sentiment, and proudly declared myself incapable of being the victim of love, am ready⁠—yes, and longing!⁠—to make as big a fool of myself as the veriest spooniest youth in existence, and all for love of you, Cyn?”

To this exceedingly novel declaration of love, Cyn responded by releasing the bough she held, and staring at him with distended eyes and a perfectly blank face; for once in her life, speechless.

“I told you I was going to astonish you,” said Jo, quaintly, in answer to her prolonged stare, “and I do not wonder that you cannot believe I really love you! I did not myself, for a long time, and I would not after I knew it! But it is a fact. No joke⁠—no mistake, but a sober, serious fact! I love you, love you, love you!”

Jo’s voice grew very fervent, as he uttered these last words, and was in such striking contrast to his ordinary manner, that Cyn could but see that this was indeed, “no joke.”

“You⁠—you love⁠—and love me!” she gasped.

“Yes, I could not help it! I have only known it within a few days, but I think I have loved you ever since we first met, only those confounded theories of mine blinded me.”

“Well⁠—but what are you going to do about it?” questioned Cyn, unable yet to recover from her bewilderment.

Jo looked at her, wistfully.

“I know I am homely, Cyn, and I am poor; I have nothing to offer you but an honest, loving and true heart. I suppose a man who is in love is naturally unreasonable⁠—I never was in love before, you know⁠—but an extravagant hope will whisper to me, that even this little might not be unappreciated by you.”

And as he spoke, Jo’s face was so transfigured that it could no longer be called plain. Cyn gazed at him in wonder, and recovering partly from her first surprise, an unusual seriousness came over her own handsome face, as she answered earnestly,

“It is not unappreciated! oh, no, Jo! Nothing to offer me but an honest, loving and true heart, you say? why, that is everything!”

“Then will you