At last, after an agony of supplication and protestation, I got Dora to look at me, with a horrified expression of face, which I gradually soothed until it was only loving, and her soft, pretty cheek was lying against mine. Then I told her, with my arms clasped round her, how I loved her, so dearly, and so dearly; how I felt it right to offer to release her from her engagement, because now I was poor; how I never could bear it, or recover it, if I lost her; how I had no fears of poverty, if she had none, my arm being nerved and my heart inspired by her; how I was already working with a courage such as none but lovers knew; how I had begun to be practical, and to look into the future; how a crust well earned was sweeter far than a feast inherited; and much more to the same purpose, which I delivered in a burst of passionate eloquence quite surprising to myself, though I had been thinking about it, day and night, ever since my aunt had astonished me.
“Is your heart mine still, dear Dora?” said I, rapturously, for I knew by her clinging to me that it was.
“Oh, yes!” cried Dora. “Oh, yes, it’s all yours. Oh, don’t be dreadful!”
I dreadful! To Dora!
“Don’t talk about being poor, and working hard!” said Dora, nestling closer to me. “Oh, don’t, don’t!”
“My dearest love,” said I, “the crust well-earned—”
“Oh, yes; but I don’t want to hear any more about crusts!” said Dora. “And Jip must have a mutton-chop every-day at twelve, or he’ll die!”
I was charmed with her childish, winning way. I fondly explained to Dora that Jip should have his mutton-chop with his accustomed regularity. I drew a picture of our frugal home, made independent by my labor—sketching-in the little house I had seen at Highgate, and my aunt in her room up-stairs.
“I am not dreadful now, Dora?” said I, tenderly.
“Oh, no, no!” cried Dora. “But I hope your aunt will keep in her own room a good deal! And I hope she’s not a scolding old thing!”