“You love me then?” he whispered, still holding my hands; “you acknowledge it; say it again;—if we are to be hereafter separated, let me at least be sure of that,—say so, Genevra.”
“Why, oh, why do you still tempt me? if you know I like you, you know it without my telling you: words are easily spoken: they might deceive you.”
“Not words from your mouth, my Genevra. I distrust the world generally, but I know in whom to confide; and who could distrust you?”
“Oh! if you only knew how miserable I feel, you would pity me,” I passionately exclaimed, comprehending the necessity of our separation, yet feeling wretched at that thought. “Let us talk of something else; let us try and remain friends only.”
“Friends!” said he, vehemently, starting from his knees, dropping my hands, and rapidly walking the room. “My feelings could never answer to so cold a title, nor could yours if they are what I wish them to be. No, dear lady, we can never again be merely friends,” and he emphasized the word scornfully. He walked on for some minutes, then suddenly pausing before me, looked long at my face.
“How beautiful, how truthful you are! how misplaced is your present position!” then, as if animated by a frenzy of feeling, he again caught my hands, and drawing me to the open window, said:—“Genevra, look there; look at that beautiful scene! see how the sun gilds the lofty domes; the tall trees, the gardens, the flowers! see how he warms whatever he looks upon, and his light might also warm two loving hearts, if my prayer was heard. Fly, Genevra, fly with me,” and he moved, drawing my hand toward the door; but I, though penetrated by a profound emotion, remained immovable, and suppressing all external indications of it, quietly drew him back to the casement, and pointing to the clear blue sky, now near twilight, said to him:
“You spoke to me allegorically: I will answer you the same. As you said to me at Baie, when we together stood upon the shore, watching the little schooner struggling for anchorage, which it at last secured, and you predicted that thus would it be with me; so do I say to you now,—behold that heavy white cloud, obscuring the light of the sky; see it gradually moves away, and the light shines clear again: so will destiny alter for us; wait and hope;—everything is comprised in these words.”
“No, Genevra, I have no hope now: this is not an occasion on which hope is permitted me. If this is our last meeting (and your refusal has signified it), give me one of those fair curls, that when I look upon it, I may recall the lovely head on which it grew: yes, give me one of them, and let me paint your beautiful eyes, your lips, your cheeks, your whole face, your whole figure, on my heart; but memory has been the artist: who could paint as well as she?”
A pair of tapestry scissors lay upon the table; he took them up, and tremblingly severed one of my curls. It was soft and silky, and at least half a yard long. He smoothed the glossy tress, then laid it in his bosom, and turned from me as if to go. I saw nothing, felt nothing, but that he was going away.
“Stay! stay! you are not going from me thus indifferently; not thus forever?”