“I did not say that,” replied Rolfe, “although I think I should be happier if I had never known you.”
“And would you forget our acquaintance?” said she; “forget that which has been to me the happiest circumstance of my life? Richard, I have never given you cause to be unhappy.”
“My love, I mean not to chide,” said Rolfe, “but you know our attachment is an unfortunate one. Your parents always regard me as an unwelcome visiter.”
“Come, let us walk into the parlour,” said she, “there is no one there;” and in a few moments they were seated on the sofa, when raising her handkerchief, she pressed it to her eyes in silence.
“Come,” said Rolfe, “taking her hand, tell me, why so grave this evening, has any thing farther occurred to make you unhappy?”
“No,” said she, “but you know there are moments in which sadness sometimes steals over us without a cause—it comes like twilight, following the close of a summer day.”
“It is a beautiful comparison, love,” replied Rolfe, “but twilight is always succeeded by night. Do I read aright our fate?” “The present is dark,” said she, sighing, “and we cannot read the future.”
“And is the present dark to thee, love,” said Rolfe, “to thee, embodying within thyself all that is pure and bright, in human nature?”
“Hush, Richard,” said she, “could I be, you would make me vain, for you love me, and therefore think me better than I am. It is that which makes you speak so extravagantly.”
“Never mind that,” said Rolfe—“come, tell me, is there any hope that your parents will consent to our wishes?”