“Oh, Catherine, my child! that I could make your life all sunshine—that you would let me try—I do believe I could make you happy.”
Catherine shook her head, slowly, with a sad smile, saying—
“We all believe that! We all think that in us only is vested the power of making those we love happy. It is because we know that we are willing, anxious to do more for them than any other person would! It is a fond error. Our efforts—our greatest sacrifices are often needless, as we ourselves are nothing to our gods of flesh.”
“Am I nothing—nothing to you, then?”
“You are my dear and honored friend.”
“Oh, Catherine, I could make your life happy! Nay, but do not look incredulous—I know I could. My love is not selfish, like that of most other men. It is perfectly disinterested. It only asks to serve you. It only desires to see you at ease. Dear Kate, you have told me all on your heart—you might lay that heart, with all its burden of unrequited affection, upon my bosom, and I would comfort, and cherish, and sustain it, until I should win its love all to myself.”
Again, and more mournfully, the girl shook her head—
“Do not pursue this subject, Colonel Conyers. Dear friend, by dwelling upon our wild wishes, they grow to seem hopes, and probabilities, and certainties. In my youth—”
“In ‘your youth’? How many years ago was that, Catherine?”
“Strange!—but at eighteen, I really feel no longer young.”