“No, not an hour. It is right!”
“What are you talking to my son about?” said Mrs. Gwynne, with a quick jealousy, which even yet was not altogether stilled.
Neither of the betrothed spoke.
“You are not hiding anything from me, Harold; from me, your mother!”
“My mother—my noble, self-denying, mother!” murmured Harold, as if thinking aloud. “Surely, if I sinned for her, God will forgive me!”
“Sinned for me! What are you talking of, Harold? Is there anything in your mind—anything I do not know?” And her eyes—still tender, yet with a half-formed suspicion—were fixed searchingly on her son. And when, as if to shield him even from his mother, Olive leaned over him, Mrs. Gwynne's voice grew stern with reproof.
“Stand aside, Olive. Let me see his face. Not even you have a right to interpose between me and my son.”
Olive moved a little aside. Very meek was she—as one had need to be whom Mrs. Gwynne would call daughter and Harold wife. Yet by her meekness she had oftentimes controlled them both. She did so now.
“Olive—darling,” whispered Harold, his eyes full of love; “my mother says right Let her come and sit by me a little. Nay, stay near, though. I must have you in my sight—it will strengthen me.”
She pressed his hand, and went away to the other end of the room.