"Oh yes, Henry," she replied, looking up still very pale, "I know you love me."
"But do you know how well I love you, Louise?" I demanded. "Do you know that I love you doubly, that I have loved you twice?"
"Twice!" she said, musing. "That is strange, Henry. I think I know what you mean, too; and yet it is strange."
"Scarcely strange, dearest," I answered, "scarcely strange. You know I loved you well before I quitted Blancford; dearly, most dearly, Louise. But I love you differently now; better, more dearly, more warmly, more tenderly."
I heard her breath come very thick as I spoke, and she leaned her hand upon my arm, still looking down, and saying, as if for the first time she was scanning her own feeling, "Differently? oh yes--and I love you differently too."
I threw my arm around her and drew her to my bosom, saying, "Thank you, thank you, dearest Louise, for that word. Yet tell me, oh! tell me, what it is you feel towards me?"
"I cannot," she said, pressing her glowing forehead against my breast, "I cannot tell you, Henry. I scarcely know myself. I feel strangely, very strangely, but it seems as if to part with you again were the most terrible thing that could befall me."
Again I pressed her gently to my heart.
"Sit down here, Louise," I said, "on these dry fragments of the fir-trees, and let us speak more calmly. Look here, dear girl; this sword that you see is the sole inheritance of him who loves you better than life. Already, however, that sword has raised him to some renown, and won him some wealth: on it he trusts for more: he trusts to win with it higher rank and station, fortune sufficient for a moderate ambition, and a right to demand the hand of her he loves. That, that, Louise, is the end and object of all my endeavours; that is the hope that animates me, and will carry me on to greatness if I am permitted to indulge it. It is that hope which has made me what I now am; it is that hope which will make my efforts far greater: it is for your love, Louise, that I strive; it is that you may be mine entirely, heart of my heart, and soul of my soul, that my arms may be your resting-place for life, and that no one may ever, ever tear you from my bosom.
"Oh, tell me, dear Louise--give me that one bright consolation, that one surpassing motive for every kind of exertion--tell me, tell me, does the change which you admit has taken place in your feelings towards me, does it tend to the same as my own wishes; does it make you feel that you could be happy as mine--not as a sister, but as a bride--not as a mere companion, but as the one united to me for life, and through life, by every link of love in one, being the sister, the companion, the friend, the wife? Oh, tell me, Louise, tell me. Is it so? Does the change in your feelings towards me speak to your own heart, and say that you can love me with such love, ardent, deep, intense, passionate as my own?"