“Yes, I know it,” she interrupted. “But what have you heard?”
“I have heard nothing,” he said, looking round in amazement. He was now for the first time aware of her agitation, and his heart stood still with delight. She has guessed my secret and shares my feelings, he thought, and what she is asking, is for a frank, brief avowal. “You are so noble, so beautiful, Vera Vassilievna, so pure....” An exclamation was wrung from her, and she would have risen, but could not.
“You mock me, you mock me,” she said, raising her hands beseechingly.
“You are ill, Vera Vassilievna,” he said, looking at her in terror. “Forgive me for having spoken to you at such a time.”
“A day earlier or later makes no difference. Say what you have to say, for I also desire to tell you why I have brought you here.”
“Is it really true?” he cried, hardly knowing how to contain his delight.
“What is true? You want to say something else, not what I expected,” she said. “Speak, and do not prolong my sufferings.”
“I love you,” he repeated. “If you can grant what I have confessed to you (and I am not worthy of it), if your love is not given elsewhere, then be my forest queen, my wife, and there will be no happier man on earth than I. That is what I have long wished to say to you and have not dared. I should have done it on your nameday but I could no longer endure the suspense, and have come to-day, on the family festival, on your sister’s birthday.”
“Ivan Ivanovich,” she moaned. The thought flashed through his head like lightning that this was no expression of joy, and he felt his hair was beginning to stand on end. He sat down beside her and said, “What is wrong with you, Vera Vassilievna? You are either ill, or are bearing a great sorrow.”
“Yes, Ivan Ivanovich! I feel that I shall die.”