But it had not that effect; it produced
the first manifestation of impatience--the first, literally, and the
first note of reproach--that had occurred in the course of their
remarkable intimacy. The colour rose to Verena's cheek, and her eye for
an instant looked moist.
"I don't know what you always think, Olive, nor why you don't seem able
to trust me. You didn't, from the first, with gentlemen. Perhaps you
were right then--I don't say; but surely it is very different now. I
don't think I ought to be suspected so much. Why have you a manner as if
I had to be watched, as if I wanted to run away with every man that
speaks to me? I should think I had proved how little I care. I thought
you had discovered by this time that I am serious; that I have dedicated
my life; that there is something unspeakably dear to me. But you begin
again, every time--you don't do me justice. I must take everything that
comes. I mustn't be afraid. I thought we had agreed that we were to do
our work in the midst of the world, facing everything, keeping straight
on, always taking hold. And now that it all opens out so magnificently,
and victory is really sitting on our banners, it is strange of you to
doubt of me, to suppose I am not more wedded to all our old dreams than
ever. I told you the first time I saw you that I could renounce, and
knowing better to-day, perhaps, what that means, I am ready to say it
again. That I can, that I will! Why, Olive Chancellor," Verena cried,
panting, a moment, with her eloquence, and with the rush of a
culminating idea, "haven't you discovered by this time that I _have_
renounced?"
The habit of public speaking, the training, the practice, in which she
had been immersed, enabled Verena to unroll a coil of propositions
dedicated even to a private interest with the most touching, most
cumulative effect.
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