HOW HEROES AND HEROINES PROPOSE.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXV, Issue 1971, 5 January 1907, Page 4

HOW HEROES AND HEROINES PROPOSE.

MODBUS roll JJJ I'T'TJfiCNT WOOERS.

Tim Imsoful lovor who .slirinktf from tho ordeal of proposal, and cannot make up Iti.s mind how to put tho fateful question most effectively, might do ivorso than study tho pages of fiction, in which he will find a

wido range of proposals for his guidance, and also got a stimulus to his Hugging courge.

it he Ims a leaning towards the

florid stylo of declaration ho miglit copy tho hero of a recent novel, who thus pours out his soul to tho lady of his heart: ‘Von ask me if J really love you. Why, my darling, does not my love cry out to you in every glance of my eyes, in every tremor of my voice? i have not known a moment since lirst we met when my love

for you has not absorbed my soul. To bo near you i.s heaven; not to see you is the greatest misery my life lias known. 1 think of you, dream of you, live for you; your glance transports me to Heaven, your touch thrills me, your voice is sweeter than

any earthly music. Tell me, darling, that you love me —ever so little; and i shall count myself the happiest man oil earth.’ il our lover feels himself unequal to soar to such heights of eloquence he might take as Ins model the hero of niolley JJawn.’ ‘ Darling,’ says Mr Luttoroll, ‘why are you so cruel to me? tenrol— you must care for me, be it ever such a little. To think otherwise would —lint I will not think of it, Molly. Nay, you will marry mo?” •you must have known that I loved you from the first night,’ protested the ‘Little Minister’ to Dabble. 'No,

you only uni used mo,’ site said, like "ono determined to stint nothing of the truth. ‘Even at the well I laughed at your vows.’ This wounded Gavin afresh, wretched as her story had made, him, and he said, tragically, .‘You have never cared for mo at all.’ ‘Oh, always, always,’ she answered, ‘since I knew what love was; and it was you who taught me.’ Even in his misery he held his head high with pride. At least she did love him, 'Juicy, did you npyer dream of meeting me?’ asked Jiiehard Eeyerel of Lucy Hesboroilgh. 'Oh, Richard, yes; for 1 remembered you.’ ‘Lucy, and did you never pray that we might meet!” ‘1 did.’ 'My own! My own for ever! You arc pledged to me? Whisper!’ ‘And you are mine!’ ‘Lucy! my bride I my lifol’ The nightjar spins his dark monotony on the branch of the pine. The | soft beam travels round them and listens to their hearts. Their lips are locked. Lovers who cannot make uj> their mind to a straightforward proposal should bo warned by Hiram Hoy’s experience in Halliwell Sutcliffe’s ‘Shameless Wayne.’ ‘l’ve been thinking of things, Martha,’ said Jiiram, ‘sill’ I saw thee look so bon-nje-like {.his morn.’ ‘What sort o’ things?’ she asked, demurely, sweeping the table free of crumbs. ‘“Well, what’s wrung for a young ’tin like tli’ maister is right enough for a seasoned chap like mo,’ continued —iram, smiling with wintry foolishness, •I’m rather backward in coming forward, tha sees, but it cumo ower mo t’other day that 1 mud varry weel look around and about me; and if I could find a wench ’ ‘Aye, what then, Hiram.’ Ho paused and slniflled liis feet. ‘Why, there’s ilivor no telling, niver no telling at all,’ he said, with an air of deep wisdom. 11l vain did Martha exercise her arts to draw Hiram beyond this noncommittal stage, until at last she became angry. 'Well, host goten owt to say ?’ at last she demanded, facing him abruptly. ‘Say? Well, now, I’m bacKwaru in coming id-ward, as I tolled thee —but th’art as snod setup a wench as ive.r ’ 'Thanks for nowt! Good day, Hiram. Th’art backward i’ most tilings, I’m thinking,’ said Martha bouncing out into the yard, Hiram should have taken a lesson from that other bucolic who, in a recent novel, puts his fate thus unromanticallv, but boldly, to the test. When Hick, leaning against a pigsty, had suddenl-- felt Himself compelled, he knew not why, to abruptly interrupt a discussion on tlie culture of tomatoes with the utterly inconsequent inquiry, ‘Haisy, will you be my wife?" Haisy, keeping her eyes steadily fixed tjie while on an elderly porker, simply answered, ‘les, Hick,' .end therein lies the whole secret of an effective proposal—a straightforward, simple question, and an equally honest, direct answer. ‘But,’ said the ‘Gentleman of France,' the hero of Mr Stanley Weyjnea's fascinating novel to tlie lady whom he had loved so long, and now saw in all the splendour of Court dress, T do not see hero the lady to whom 1 came to address myself,' and whom I have seen a hundred times in far other garb than yours, wet and weary and dishevelled, in danger and in flight. Her I have served and loved, and for her I have lived. I have had no thought that has not been hers, nor care save for her. 1 and all that I have are hers, and I came to lay them at her loot. But I do not see her here.’ ‘jNo, sir!’ she answered in a whisper, her face averted. ‘Eo, mademoiselle,’ With a suddon brightness and quickness which set my heart beating slie turned and looked at me. ‘indeed,’ she said, ‘l’m sorry for that. It is a pity your love should bo given elsewhere, JYt. do Marsac—since it is the Xing's will you should marry mo.’ ‘All, mademoiselle I’ I cried, kneeling before her, tor she had come round to the table and stood beside me. ‘But you?’ ‘lt is my will too, sir,’ she answered, smiling through her tears. But in fiction, as perhaps in fact, the hero has no monopoly in proXiosals. Gould anything bo more charming than Holly V'arden’s self-surrender to Joo Willett, her dilhdent lover?' ‘Hear Joe, 1 always loved you—in my heart I always did, although I was so vain and giddy. I hoped ypu would come back. I made quite sure you would. 1 prayed for it on my knees.’ And when Joe’s arm, under such encouragement, stole round lier waist, Holly exclaimed, in trembling accents, ‘And now at last, if you were sick, and shattered in every limb; if you wore ailing, weak, and sorrowful; if, instead of being what you are, you wore in everybody’s eyes but mine the wreck and ruin of a man, I would bo your wife, doar Jove, with greater pride and joy than if ypu wore Clio stateliest lord in England 1’ Equally sweet is tlie some in wui li John Rid is crowned by tlie seifconlessed love of Lorna Hoone. ‘Then like a woman,’ John says, ‘she came to me, seeing how alarmed I was. The hand she offered me I took, and raised it to my lips with fear, as a thing too good lor me. ‘ls that- all?’ she whispered; and then lier eyes gleamed up at me, and in another instant'she was weeping on my breast.’ And all that the shy, awkward lover could say, with Lorna trembling in liis arms, was, ‘There is no other man iii all the world who could hold you so without kissing you!’