“Ay, there is another sting,” he answered. “Not one word say you;—but I feel it. How many years you may have still to work on alone!”
“Do you think I fear that? Nay—I do not give my heart like some women I have known—from dread of living to be an old maid, or to gain a house, a name, and a husband;—I gave it for love, pure love! If I were to wait for years—if I were never your wife at all, but died only your betrothed, still I should die satisfied. Oh, Harold, you know not how sweet it is to love you, and be loved by you—to share all your cares, and rejoice in all your joys! Indeed—indeed I am content.”
“You might, my gentle one, but not I. Little you think how strong is man's pride—how stronger still is man's love. We will not look to such a future—I could not bear it. If I go, you shall go with me, my wife! Poor or not, what care I, so you are mine?”
He spoke hurriedly, like the proud Harold of old—ay, the pride mingled with a stronger passion still. But Olive smiled both down.
“Harold,” she said, parting his hair with her cool soft hands, “do not be angry with me! You know I love you dearly. Sometimes I think I must have loved you before you loved me, long. Yet I am not ashamed of this.”
“Ah!” he muttered, “how often ignorantly I must have made you suffer, how often, blindly straggling with my own pride, have I tortured you. But still—still I loved you. Forgive me, dear!”
“Nay, there is nothing to forgive. The joy has blotted out all the pain.”
“It shall do so when you are once mine. That must be soon, Olive—soon.”
She answered firmly, though a little blushing the while: “It should be to-morrow; if for your good. But it would not be. You must not be troubled with worldly cares. To see you so would break my heart. No—you must be free to work, and gain fame and success. My love shall never fetter you down to anxious poverty. I regard your glory even dearer than yourself, you see!”
Gradually she led him to consent to her entreaty that they should both work together for their dearest ones; and that in the home which she with her slender means could win, there should ever be a resting-place for Mrs. Gwynne and for little Ailie.