“That is true, but no more is it a certainty that you have made Otto unhappy. You feel that too, do you not? You are not certain of it.”
“No, no, I believe I am certain.”
“No, you are not,” he continued; “and you tell me, now that I ask you to be my wife, that it cannot be, that it can never be. Is that not cruel of you?”
“Oh, why do you reproach me with that?” she sobbed.
“Just now you said yourself that you were always in doubt—that you were always searching for something, but that you never knew anything for certain. How is it then that now you say you know without doubt that it never could be? Are you so certain of that? Will you feel no regret when I am gone—when it is too late?”
“Oh,” she groaned, “how can you make me suffer thus? You torture me.”
He was silent for a moment, and gently raised her head from his bosom.
“I shall torture you no longer, Eline. Only this I want to say to you. Don’t refuse now what I have asked you. A day may come when you may wish that you had spoken differently. Let [[297]]me hope as much as that, at least. The day after to-morrow I am leaving here with Vincent. In five months’ time I shall see you once again. I shall ask Vincent to write you now and then. You shall always know where we are, and you need but say one word, and I shall return at once. I don’t ask you now to promise me anything, but pray refuse me nothing either. Allow me to hope, and endeavour to hope yourself. Will you do this, or is it too much that I am asking you?”
“No,” she whispered. “Oh, no, it is not too much. I will give you my answer in five months’ time.”
“Very well,” said he. “I shall ask you nothing more, and now I shall wait until your uncle and aunt are home to take leave of them. Vincent will come to-morrow. But now that we are alone, may I take my leave of you?”