Christine shook her head with a denial of the thought that was almost indignant.
“Never,” she said, “oh, never, never! I only ask to stay here, as I am, until I die.”
“Christine,” he said, and she could feel his strong gaze on her, through her lowered lids, “try to be honest with your own heart. Listen to its voice and you will have to own you are not happy.”
“Happy! How could I ever expect to be? It would be a shame to me even to think of it. Oh, you do not know a woman’s nature, or you could not talk to me of happiness.”
“I know your woman’s nature, Christine—well enough to reverence it and kneel to it, and I am not afraid to tell you you are outraging and wronging it, by shutting out happiness from your heart. What is there to hinder you from being happy? And oh, Christine, I know at least, there is no happiness but love.”
A silence, solemn and still as death, followed these fervent, low-toned words. He could see the fluttering of her breath, and the look of deep, affrighted pain upon her face made his heart quiver.
“Christine,” he murmured in a voice grown softer and lower still, “try not to be frightened or distressed. I cannot hold back my heart any longer. I love you—dear and good and noble one. If you could only love me a little, in return, I could make you so happy. I know I could, Christine, and as for me—why my life, if you refuse me your love, is worthless and wasted and dead. Oh, Christine, you are the very treasure of my heart, whether you will or no. Be my wife. You can make my happiness, as surely as I, if you will let me, can make yours.”
He would not venture to take her hand, but he held out his to her, saying in a voice that had sunk to a whisper:
“Only put your hand in mine, Christine, in token that you will try to love me a little, and I will wait for all the rest.”