“Not yet—not yet,” she said in a whisper—disjointed and staccato. “I cannot listen to you yet. I dare not—I have my pride.”
“Pride? What is pride? How have I wounded your pride?” he said. “Ah, my God! you cannot think that I would propose anything that is not honourable? You do not look on me as such a wretch? Ah, you cannot.”
“Oh, no, no,” she said quickly. “I would trust you. I have looked into your face. I have heard you sing.”
“You place your faith in me? But you cannot do that unless you love me. And if you love me—have I been too headlong? Have I startled you? But surely you must have seen that on the very first day we met, before I had been an hour in your presence, my life was yours. I tell you that I knew it—not an hour—one glance was enough to tell me that I was all yours, and that for me no other one lived or would ever live in the world. What have you to say? Do not you believe me? What did you mean by that word 'pride'? It does not seem to me that it had any connection with you or me.”
“Do not ask me to explain anything just now,” she said. “You would not like to be asked to explain how you came to—to—think of me—to feel in regard to me as you have said you do——”
“Why should I shrink from it?” he asked. “But no one who has seen you would put such a question to me. I loved you because you were—you. Is not that enough? It would be sufficient for anyone who knew you. I saw you sitting there—so sweetly timid—a little flower that is so startled to find itself awakened into life in the spring, that it would fain ask the earth to hide it again. I thought of you as that modest little flower—a violet trying to obscure its own charm by the leaves that surround it; but all in vain—in vain, for its presence has given a subtle perfume to the air, and all who breathe of its delicate sweetness take the spirit of the spring into their souls and know that a violet is there, though hidden from their view. That is how I saw you. I have always loved the violet, and felt that shyness and sweetness were ever one; and am I to be reproached if I have a longing to pluck my violet and have her ever with me?”
“This is madness—the poetry of madness,” she cried, and there was really a piteous note in her voice. “But if I did not believe that you feel every word that you have spoken, I would let you continue, and drink in the sweetness of every word that falls from your lips. It is because I know that you are speaking from your heart and because I also know my own unworthiness that I pray of you to say no more—yet.”
“Why should I not tell you the truth, if you confess that you believe I am speaking sincerely?”
“Sincerely, but in a dream.”
“Is all love a dream, then?—is that what is in your thought?”