Here Theophil enveloped her in a huge hug, and laughingly mocked her with playful caresses, smiling to himself all the same.  For the music she had referred to was Dvorak.

CHAPTER XI

A LITTLE ABOUT JENNY

Meanwhile, as New Zion moved and hummed and whizzed, and as “The Dawn” went on dawning week by week,—­you couldn’t expect the dawn oftener than once a week in Coalchester,—­the love of Jenny and Theophil grew more and more perfect.

There was a long while to wait yet before Jenny was to bear what seemed to her the finest of all names, for old Mrs. Talbot, easily manageable as a rule, had a way of quietly putting her foot down on occasion that would have surprised you.  Jenny was only just passed nineteen, and was no fit wife for any man yet, least of all for a great sprawling fellow like that.  Let her get a little more flesh on her bones, something more than all spirit and nerves, let her get well turned twenty, and it might be thought of, but not now.

No! it’s no use coming with your nonsense, you silly big fellow!  You know when the soft old mother says a thing, she means it.

So it proved.  Old Mrs. Talbot on this point remained a homely form of adamant.  However, the lovers were not badly off.  Living in the same house, they saw almost as much of each other as if they had been married, and from the evenings she spent there, Jenny had come to regard Theophil’s room and his books as hers too.

She had developed wonderfully in these months, had Jenny.  She was a real little great man’s wife now; and as Theophil looked at her, with her lit eager face, her whole soul so alive to help him in however humble a way, her whole life his, his, his,—­such love seemed almost tragic in its very beauty and joy.  It was so irremediably—­love.  At times he almost trembled before it.  He would almost chide her with its divine completeness.

What if he were to be taken from her?  Oughtn’t she to keep just a little of herself for foothold?  We ought all to belong to ourselves as well as to another.  It was such a risk.  Suppose he were to die, Jenny!

No doubt it was very wise, but Jenny was wiser.  She could never belong to herself again.  She was his, and his only, for ever; and if he died—­if he were to be taken away ...

But he could never be taken from her any other way?  No one else, nothing but death, could take him ...

“No, nothing but death—­and perhaps not even death.”

“You are sure, darling?  O, you are quite, quite sure?”

“Sure from my soul, little child.  Look in it and see.”

A lover’s eyes are his soul.

Yes, Theophil loved Jenny, loved her even more with her own dependence on love than he knew of.  He was, the reader need scarcely be told, an almost wildly ambitious man, and a few months ago he would have said that there was nothing which was more to him than the expression of the power that was in him.  But there was something that was even more to him now, and if it could be imagined that he might some day be asked to choose between his ambition and Jenny, he could honestly have answered from his soul, “Give me Jenny.”