‘I took her hand within my own,
I drew her gently nearer,
And whispered almost on her cheek,
“Oh, would that I were dearer.”
Dearer! No, that’s not my prayer:
A stranger, e’en the merest,
Might chance to have some value there;
But I would be the dearest.’
‘What had he done to merit such a hope?’ said she haughtily.
‘Loved her—only loved her!’
‘What value you men must attach to this gift of your affection, when it can nourish such thoughts as these! Your very wilfulness is to win us—is not that your theory? I expect from the man who offers me his heart that he means to share with me his own power and his own ambition—to make me the partner of a station that is to give me some pre-eminence I had not known before, nor could gain unaided.’
‘And you would call that marrying for love?’
‘Why not? Who has such a claim upon my life as he who makes the life worth living for? Did you hear that shout?’
‘I heard it,’ said he, standing still to listen.
‘It came from the village. What can it mean?’