“But I will, God helping me. If you will trust your life and your happiness to me, I will—I will make you happy.”
“Say you will love me, Ronald,” she whispered, raising her lovely face to his. He would have been more than mortal not to have been touched by the wistful sadness there.
“I will love you,” he cried. “Help me to love you, Clarice; help me to forget this black, brooding shadow that darkens my life; help me to be a braver, better, nobler man by becoming my wife.”
“I will, if you will love me. Ah, Ronald! why is she fairer to you than I am? Why should you give her more than me? You say she has been cruel to you. Listen! I have loved you as long as you have loved her. I have never given one thought to any other than yourself. You talk about love—oh, Ronald! could you count the leaves on the trees you might, perhaps, be able to tell how dearly I love you.”
She clasped her white hands and laid them folded on his breast.
“Do you know that if at any time my life could have saved you, I would have laid it down for you? Do not think I am speaking as women should not speak. There is no pain you have suffered that has not been doubled for me. I have asked but one boon from Heaven, one grace, one blessing—and that was your love, Ronald.”
“Alas, that I have not more to give!”
“Never say that; I am content. You did not choose me first, but perhaps in the years to come you may love me best. You have chosen me as your comforter, and I would rather be that to you than the worshiped queen of any man.”
Her golden head drooped on his breast, and her voice died away, in a passionate murmur that was but a sigh.
“I do not deserve it,” he said, regretfully.