“No—you cannot help yourself. I love you and I told you so.”
“You did not mean this.”
“I did not mean it. Oh, I trusted you. I did not doubt myself. I am wicked.” The strange revulsion from her long selflessness had reached its height in poor Hilda; but, in her eyes, the discovered self was indeed wicked, a terrible revelation.
Her head fell helplessly against his shoulder.
“O Peter, Peter!”
“What, my darling child?”
“That we should be so base!”
“Not we, Hilda. Not you!”
“Yes, I—for I am happy—think of it, happy! Peter, I love you so much.” She wept, her head upon his shoulder. “Keep me for a moment, only a moment longer. As I am wicked, let me have the good of it. I am glad that you love me. No; don’t kiss me. Tell me again that you have loved me for a long time.”
“From the moment I saw you again, I think. I knew it when I began meeting you after your lessons. Do you remember that first day in the rain? I do; and your little hat with the bow on it, the hole in your little glove, your white little face. I went away to the South because I could not trust myself with you. I did not dream that you loved me, but I felt—ah! I felt—that I could have made you love me!”