“What is this mystery?”
It was her feeling of this tumultuous beating of his heart that all but made her lose her intellectual foothold. His heart beating close to hers swayed her as the moon sways the tides, until for some moments she could not have told whether it was her heart or his that was beating so wildly—only for some moments, however; only long enough for that madness to suggest itself to her—to let her resolution fly to the winds—what did anything matter so long as she could lay her hand in his, and feel his fingers warm over hers? It was her first acquaintance with the tyranny of a heart aflame, and for a moment she bent her head before it. He thought that he had got the better of her scruples, whatever they were, by the way her voice broke as she said:
“Madness—it would be madness!”
He was not acute enough to perceive that she was talking to herself—trying to bring her reason to help her to hold out against the throbbing of her heart—his heart.
“It would indeed be madness for us to turn our backs upon happiness when it is within our reach,” said he. “That is what you would say, sweet saint?”
But she had now recovered herself.
“Indeed it is because I have no thought except for your happiness that I entreat of you to listen to me,” said Fanny.
“I will listen to you if you tell me in one word that you love me,” said he.
There was no pause before she turned her eyes upon him saying:
“You know it. You have never doubted it. It is because I love you so truly I wish to save you from unhappiness. I want to hold your love for ever and ever.”