And she was
right; not a letter, but a poem he had sent her, with every word
on fire.
The hours of talk! It enraptured him to find how much she had
read, and with what clearness of understanding. Latin and Greek,
no. Ah! but she should learn them both, that there might be
nothing wanting in the communion between his thought and hers.
For he loved the old writers with all his heart; they had been
such strength to him in his days of misery.
They would go together to the charmed lands of the South. No, not
now for their marriage holiday--Amy said that would be an
imprudent expense; but as soon as he had got a good price for a
book. Will not the publishers be kind? If they knew what
happiness lurked in embryo within their foolish cheque-books!
He woke of a sudden in the early hours of one morning, a week
before the wedding-day. You know that kind of awaking, so
complete in an instant, caused by the pressure of some
troublesome thought upon the dreaming brain. 'Suppose I should
not succeed henceforth? Suppose I could never get more than this
poor hundred pounds for one of the long books which cost me so
much labour? I shall perhaps have children to support; and Amy--
how would Amy bear poverty?'
He knew what poverty means.
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