“No! No! No!” she interrupted, jerking her clasped hands quickly downward.
“To lay aside the deep, unspoken hopes of a man who has never loved woman before——”
She came a little nearer to me, still exploring my face with her eyes, as I spoke the last words.
“Did you not, Quintin? Are you sure?”
“I have never loved before,” said I, “because I have loved Mary Gordon from the beginning, yea, every day and every hour since I was a herd boy on the hills. Once I was filled with pride and the security of position. But of these the Lord hath stripped me. I am well-nigh as poor as when I came into the world. I have nothing now to offer you or any woman.”
“Nay,” she cried, speaking very quickly and suddenly, laying her clasped hands on my arm, “you are rich—rich, Quintin! Listen, lad! There is one that loves you now—who has loved you long. Do you not understand? Must I, that am a maid, speak for myself? Must I say, I love you, Quintin?”
And then she smiled suddenly, gloriously, like the sun bursting through black and leaden clouds.
Oh, sweet and perilously sweet was her smile!
“Mary,” I cried, suddenly, “you are not playing with me? Ah, for God’s dear sake, do not that! It would break my heart. You cannot love a man broken, penniless, outcast, one of a down-trodden and despised folk. You must not give yourself to one whose future path is lone and desolate!”
“I love you, Quintin!”