"You dear love," he said, falteringly, "certainly we belong to each other. Nothing can part us again, Judith--nothing. And I shall do all that lies in my power to keep you from ever repenting it." He could safely promise that, for it was his firm resolve. "I love you as I never loved before."
A happy smile lit up her face, yet her eyes were filled with tears. "I believe you. Would I be here if I had one moment's doubt of your honor? Would I have come yesterday? No, I should be sitting in my own room, weeping my eyes out for my misfortune in loving a man who had no love for me--who would not make me his wife. And perhaps," she continued shrilly, "I could not endure life with such shame and misery at my heart."
"Judith," he said, startled, "what thoughts are these?"
"Silly ones, I know. But see how much has happened these past few days. I am quite changed. I do not think it ever occurred to any girl before. I have no control over my own heart; it commands me, and I must come to you and be caressed, and caress you in turn. It is the same with my thoughts. They roam about in wild confusion. I am only quiet when I think of you. For I know you--"
"And yet," he said, looking at her tenderly, "you must have wept much since yesterday!"
"Are you surprised?" She asked this with a sorrowful smile. "Remember, my father and brother love me, and I love them. How startled they will be when you ask for my hand, and how it will distress them for me to become a Christian! Perhaps I may lose their hearts forever. They may never wish to have any more to do with me. You do not know what it means with us to change our faith. In our parish there is a poor old widow, Miriam Gold, who earns her living as a nurse. Her husband was a village publican, and her only daughter fell in love with a peasant, became a Christian, and married him. The father died of grief at the disgrace and from the sneers of our co-religionists, and the mother leads a wretched life. Had my father not interfered in her behalf, she would have perished. She, too, has cast off her daughter, and scarcely ever mentions her. She herself told me to-day that she had not spoken of her for years."
The count listened, his mind filled with contending emotions. "What, to-day?" he asked, in surprise.
"Just now. The reason I was so late was that she begged me to allow her to tell her story. Perhaps," drawing a deep breath--"perhaps it was no coincidence. She knows my position, and wishes to warn me. If so, my father may hear of it, and that would be a bad thing. Honesty demands he should hear it from us first, not from others. If you preferred, I could tell him myself."
"I must have time for consideration," replied the count. "I should like to spare you needless strife."
"Be upright," whispered his conscience. "You are a scoundrel if you are silent now." But how could he do it, and how would she receive it? Only just now she had said: "Perhaps I could not endure to go on living."