‘Which, of course, is the only thing I want,’ said the young man, sullenly. ‘That is always the way with girls.’
‘And why should you want it so?’ said Isabel, eagerly. ‘We’re young, and we can wait. If all your folk were ready and willing, could I leave my Margaret? Horace, you know as well as I do she has been my comfort a’ my days; there is not one like her far or near. If you think, as other folk think, that Ailie is nearer God than our Margaret, oh, it shows how little you know,’ cried Isabel, with the hot colour rushing over her face; ‘and could I forsake her that has been like a mother to me? What is love, if it’s like that?’
‘I don’t think you know what love means,’ said Horace: ‘it is to give up all for one; it is to forsake father and mother--and your past life--and your prospects, as people call them--and good sense and caution and prudence, and all your Scotch qualities;--that is what love is, Isabel; to think of nobody, and care for nobody, but one; to give all your heart, and not a bit of it. I don’t ask you for a bit of it; I want you all--every thought, every feeling. I want you to give up everybody and come to me--to me!’ and here the young man opened his arms and turned to her with a look of passion which startled the girl. She made a sudden sidelong step beyond one of the great heather clumps before she answered. The colour changed from red to pale on her face; but she kept her eyes fixed on him, with a look of eagerness and wistfulness, trying to penetrate beneath the surface and see his heart.
‘Horace,’ she said, softly, ‘you and me are different--a man and a girl are different, I suppose. That is not what it is to me. It is something that makes life better, and stronger, and sweeter. I’m fonder of Margaret, I’m better to the bairns. Don’t turn away like that. It is like wine,’ cried the girl, with light rising in her eyes; ‘it gives you strength for all you have to do. You’re at your work, you’re minding your house, you’re vexed and wearied and troubled--and lo, you give a glance out of the window, and you see _him_ pass, and all your trouble rolls away! That’s love to me. When you turn round and give me a smile, it’s like wine,’ cried Isabel once more; ‘I feel it all about my heart--I go back to my work, and something sings within me. I am neither tired nor troubled more. That’s love to me! And the world’s bonnier and the sky’s brighter,’ she went on faltering, ‘Oh, Horace, surely you know what I mean?’