Olive Castlemaine did not speak, but there was a look in her eyes which, had Herbert Briarfield seen, he would have thought it wise to be silent.
"We are neither of us children," he went on; "I am thirty-six, and therefore not ignorant of the world. I know that you have had many offers of marriage, and I—I know that the man to whom you were once engaged is dead."
He felt he was acting like a fool while he was speaking, but the words escaped him, in spite of himself.
"But you are not going to allow that to wreck your life," he went on. "You are young—and—and you know how beautiful you are. Besides, I love you; love you like my own life. You are the only woman in the world to me. I do not know the—the story of that business, but—but surely—oh, Olive, you cannot allow such an episode—the fact that a worthless fellow committed suicide—to close your heart to me for ever. Oh, Olive, do have a little pity on me!"
Her first feeling as he spoke was of anger, but this was followed by pity. She had always thought of him with kindness. In many respects he was a fine young fellow, and was beloved in the neighbourhood; thus the fact of his love could not be altogether unpleasant.
"Mr. Briarfield," she said, "really I am very sorry for this; but let me say once and for all——"
"No, no, not now. Give me another three months—let me speak to you again then. In the meanwhile think it all out again, Olive."
"It is no use, Mr. Briarfield. I am not one to alter my mind easily."
"But there is no one else, is there?"
"No."