“It is horrible to think that things are being concealed from one.”
“You may trust me. But, my child, why are you hungering so terribly after a change? Cannot we make you happy here?”
Something in his voice made her heart stand still with fright. She tried to draw away her hands, but he held them fast, so fast that he almost hurt her. In fact, he did not know what he was doing. He kept his voice under control, but the room swam round. He was only conscious that she was close to him.
“Let me go, monsieur,” she said, in a low, hurried voice; and then he recovered himself with an effort.
“Hear me first,” he said, releasing her hands; but standing between her and the door, and holding her still more, as she felt, by a certain determination in his voice. “I did not come here meaning to say this; but when I see you looking so changed, so sad, I cannot keep it back. I think I could make you happy. It should be my life’s joy. I am old—much older than you, a plain, rough man; but—child, child, do you know how I love you—!”
The last words broke from him with a passionate ring. She put her hands before her eyes. “No, no, no!” she cried.
There was a moment’s silence. Then he began to speak again, patting a great force upon himself as he did so. “Forgive me. I know you cannot understand—cannot feel as I do. I do not ask for it. I only ask you to let me give you the home you want. You say you belong to no one. It is at least something to have a home,” he said in abrupt sentences, with his voice unconsciously tremulous.
Still silence, yet her heart beat so quickly that she fancied its great throbs filled the room. What was this that had come to her? What sudden awakening had changed their positions? And what was it that was offered?—a home—rest—deliverance from bondage, it seemed. She had no love to give; but if he did not demand it? He was not hard, she knew that now, and did him justice. Would it not be easy to put her hand into his, and go away where at least she would find kind shelter? One must be in a position like hers before judging poor, desolate Thérèse for the strength of the temptation. Fabien, who had been gone so long—Fabien, who had renounced her with the rest—Fabien and weary waiting—unkind words, hard toil, solitude, dreariness, on the one side; on the other, love, tenderness, protection. She hesitated, her heart cried out for these good things, she half put out her hand, and glanced at him with shy, frightened eyes. His own grew more hopeful, more eager, as he noticed the little action.
“Will you trust me? Will you come?” he said in a deep, tender voice. He fancied he could read her maidenly reluctance, her fears; he knew nothing of that other who formed the real barrier between them; he did not even understand what motives half impelled her towards him. He had her hands in his again before she quite knew what he was about. It all seemed to her like a dream. “Can you give me a little love?” he said, smiling. The word awoke her.
“No, no,” she cried, wrenching her hands away suddenly. “Oh, what are you saying! Never, never!”