“Why try it at all?”
“Love is its own reason,” said George, “and it is the reason for most other things as well. I love you and I am not in search of reasons. I love you very, very much, with all my heart—so much that I do not know how to say it. My life is full of you. You are everywhere. You are always with me. In everything I have done since I have known you I have thought of you. I have asked myself whether this would please you, whether that would bring a smile to your dear face, whether these words or those would speak to your heart and be sweet to you. You are everything the world holds for me, the sun that shines, the air I breathe. Without the thought of you I could neither think nor work. If a man can grow great by the thought of woman’s love, you can make me one of the greatest—if men die of broken hearts you can kill me—you are everything to me—life, breath and happiness.”
Constance was silent. He spoke passionately, and there was an accent of truth in his low, vibrating voice, that went to her heart. For one moment she almost felt that she loved him in return, as she had often dreamed of loving. That he was even now more to her than any living being, she knew already.
“You like me,” he said presently. “You like me, you are fond of me, you have often told me that I am your best friend, the one of whom you think most. You let me come when I will, you let me say all that is in my heart to say, you let me tell you that I love you——”
“It is very sweet to hear,” said Constance softly.
“And it is sweet to say as well—dearest. Ah, Constance, say it once, say that it is more than friendship, more than liking, more than fondness that you feel. What can it cost you to say it?”
“Would it make you very happy?”
“It would make this world heaven.”
Constance stopped in her walk, drew back a little from his side, and looked at him.
“I will say it,” she said quietly. “I love you—yes, I do. No—do not start—it is not much to hear, you must not be too hopeful. I will tell you the truth—so, as we stand—no nearer. It is not friendship nor fondness, nor mere liking. It is love, but it is not what it should be. Do you know why I tell you? Because I care too much for your respect to let you think I am a miserable flirt, to let you think that I am encouraging you and drawing you on, without having the least heart in the matter. You must think me very conscientious. Perhaps I am. Yes, I have encouraged you, I have drawn you on, because I like to hear you say what you so often say of late, that you love me. It is very sweet to hear, as I told you just now. And, do you know? I wish I could say the same things to you, and feel them. But I do not love you enough, I am not sure of my love, it is greater to-day and less to-morrow, and I will not give you little where you give me so much. You know my secret now. You may hope, if you will. I am not deceiving you. I may love you more and more, and the day when I feel that it is all strong and true and whole and sound and unchangeable I will marry you. But I will not promise. I will not run the risk so long as I feel that my love may turn again into friendship next week—or next year. Do you see? Have you understood me? Is it all clear now?”