“Rose,” said he at last, “most sweet and fragrant maid, thou canst be so nobly kind, so tender, so brave and womanly that there be times love doth so enthral me, I would thou hadst never known Herminia.”
“Indeed, sir! And is Herminia so bitter, so hard, so cowardly, so altogether evil?”
“She is—Herminia!”
“And you,” cried she, ablaze with sudden anger, “what are you, despite your foolish play-acting, but that same ‘Wicked Dering’ whose name is a byword—even here!”
“So it is, child, that I would be the good John Derwent a little longer, for thy sake and my sake. For as John Derwent I do so love thee, my Rose, I would John Dering had never been. In John Derwent is all John Dering’s better self ... to reverence thee with such a love that, yearning to possess thee, scarce dare touch thy hand.” As he spoke, his voice took on a deeper note, his pale cheek flushed, and in his eyes shone a light she had never seen there before; and, beholding him thus moved, her breath quickened and she glanced away lest he should read the triumph in her face.
“Can such love truly be?” she asked softly.
“So long as thou art Rose,” he answered.
“And what o’ poor Herminia?”
“Do but love me, Rose, and I will strive to love her for thy dear sake.”
“Will this be so hard a matter? Must you strive so extremely?” she questioned, and glanced at him over her shoulder, languorous-eyed, vivid lips up-curving, conscious of and assured in her beauty; and, reading this look, he laughed a little bitterly.