“What! and bind her by a promise which it may take years to fulfil?”
“If he has won her heart, she is already bound. It is mockery to talk as the world talks, of the sense of honour that leaves a woman 'free.' She is not free. She is as much bound as if she were married to him. Tell him so! Bid him take her to his heart, that, come what will, she may feel she has a place there. Let him not insult her by the doubt that she dreads poverty or long delay. If she loves him truly, she will wait years, a whole lifetime, until he claim her. If he labour, she will strengthen him; if he suffer, she will comfort him; in the world's fierce battle, her faithfulness will be to him rest, and help, and balm.”
“But,” said Harold, his voice hoarse and trembling, “what if they should live on thus for years, and never marry? What if he should die?”
“Die!”
“Yes. If so, far better that he should never have spoken—that his secret should go down with him to the grave.”
“What, you mean that he should die, and she never know that he loved her! O Heaven! what misery could equal that!”
As Olive spoke, the tears sprang into her eyes, and, utterly subdued, she stood still and let them flow.
Harold, too, seemed strangely moved, but only for a moment. Then he said, very softly and quietly, “Miss Rothesay, you speak like one who feels every word. These are things we learn in but one school. Tell me—as a friend, who night and day prays for your happiness—are you not speaking from your own heart? You love, or you have loved?”
For a moment Olive's senses seemed to reel. But his eyes were upon her—those truthful, truth-searching eyes.
“Must I look in his face and tell him a lie?” was her half-frenzied thought. “I cannot, I cannot! And the whole truth he will never, never know.”