"Do not speak of death!" said Violet, with a shudder and a hurried gesture of entreaty. "I cannot bear that! I will have no one speak of dying for me! I believe—the dread clings to me—that he—Leicester—came to harm through me. No, no; no one shall die for me!"
And she half rose, wild and pale.
"Be calm, dear Violet," implored Fitz. "See how wild, how frightened you have become. Confess now that you need some strong right arm to protect you, to save you from the terrible state into which you have fallen! Violet, I do not ask you to love me, I only ask that you will promise to try. Have pity on me! You have a little, you say, but remember how I have been hoping for so long, and say that you will promise to try and love me."
Violet closed her eyes, and seemed lost in thought, then she opened them and smiled sadly.
"I have been thinking of all you say, dear Lord Boisdale," she said. "I am grateful, very, very grateful. I know how good, how true you are, and I would implore you to give that noble love to some one more deserving of it, but that I feel it would be an insult to do so. I know I am weak—perhaps that I am wicked. Oh, that I knew what was right!" she broke off wildly and with clasped hands.
"Say yes," pleaded Fitz. "You cannot trust yourself to any one who can understand you or love you better."
"Give me time, time," pleaded Violet. "I must have time to think."
"A week?" said Fitz.
"No, no; a month—a month!" said Violet, in a low, constrained voice.
"Well," sighed Fitz, "a month, if you will have it so long. Say a month. It's a very long time, but——" and he sighed again. "Well, a month! Try to say yes, dear Violet."