“The stone of happiness when one finds it is still a stone. How can a stone bring happiness?”
“Your ring—to see the sapphire brings me happiness,” he answered.
He felt of late an intangible something between them—as if he were fighting with the powers of the air, with unknown forces—would he win, or they? The dead are quiet for ever, and yet something seemed to come between him and Launa. Do the dead watch over those they love? Mr. Wainbridge shivered; he was sometimes superstitious.
Paul was not an acquiescent lover, and since his day in the canoe with Launa he had pondered long and frequently. Was she happy? No; nor was he.
One afternoon when with her, like an inspiration it came to him that he was master. He would not give in, he loved her; love was power, and she did not love Mr. Wainbridge, of that he was sure.
Launa was alone.
They talked for some moments, the conversation was led by her to Newfoundland, but he took no interest in that.
“When are you going to be married?” he asked.
“When? I know not. Talk of something else.”
“I will talk about you. It is of no use for you to change the subject. I love you, love you, and you are mine. You have no right to marry anyone but me. You belong to me.”