"I have read your letter," resumed the young woman, drawing Oliver's missive from her corsage. "Frightened at your resolve of suicide, and thinking only of snatching you from death while there was yet time, I was not at first able to finish it. But now I have just read it through."
"What do I hear!" exclaimed the youth, clasping his hands in a transport of joy. "My letter caused you neither contempt nor anger?"
"Why should it? You yielded to the promptings of gratitude toward me, and sympathy for my character. So, I am not irritated, but touched, by your affection."
"You are touched by my affection, Mademoiselle Victoria? My heaven, what do you say!"
"Now, my friend, answer me sincerely. The fear of seeing me insensible to an avowal which timidity has for so long kept trembling on your lips, drove you to think of suicide—am I right?"
"Helas, yes, mademoiselle!"
"Now speak true, Oliver. Was it as a mistress, or a wife, that you dreamt of me?"
"Good heavens! Do you think—?"
"You thought of me as the future companion of your life? Ah, me, I declare that I am unworthy to become your wife. Cruelly as this avowal wounds my heart, Oliver, I must make it to you, in order that you retain no illusion, and no hope. But I offer you in their place a devoted attachment, the affection of a mother for her child. That is all I can give you."
Oliver, who so far had held his hands clasped over his face, now let them drop upon his knees. He replied with not a single word, but fixing upon Victoria a dark and foreboding look, rose with difficulty from his seat, and with a step that still wavered, moved towards the door.