At length she began, with her clear, frank gaze fastened on my face:
"I am deeply sensible of the honor you do me in expressing yourself as you have done, and I am convinced that no woman can do otherwise than feel a sense of the greatest satisfaction in knowing that she is so regarded by an honorable man. I must confess," she continued after a moment of hesitation, "that your words are far from being indifferent or unwelcome to me! Oh, how strange are the circumstances of my life! I know not how to reply to you! I know not—"
And she paused, at a loss how to continue.
I was happy. Odile had confessed enough to make me feel that I could bide my time for the present without endangering my future hopes; indeed, I felt that it might be wisdom to grant her time more fully to determine her sentiments, before pursuing the victory already won. I was now about to share in the secret of her life at her own request; and I resolved, if the reason of her vow should be explained, as I felt it must, to controvert it by any honorable means.
"You have said enough to make me supremely happy!" I exclaimed. "You have not denied me the happiness of hope, and I shall not despair! Meanwhile, whatever I may win is fairly mine, is it not?"
"Yes," murmured Odile, with just the slightest smile, in which I fancied there was less sorrow than before.
"And now, dear one, I fear I have been selfish in intruding my own feelings where so much grief is present! Pray forgive me, and continue your story."
I pressed her hands once more, and as she gently disengaged them I resumed my chair.
Odile dried her tear-stained cheeks, and resting her face on her fair hand she began:
"When I go back into the past, and return to my earliest dreams, I see again my mother. She was a stately woman, pale and silent, and still young at the time of which I am now speaking. She was scarcely thirty years, and you would have thought her at least fifty. White locks veiled her thoughtful forehead; her thin cheeks and severe profile, and her lips ever firmly closed with an expression of pain, gave to her features a strange character, in which grief and pride were blended. There was nothing that suggested youth in this old woman of thirty; nothing but her upright, haughty bearing, her brilliant eyes, and her voice, pure and sweet as the dreams of childhood. She often walked up and down for hours together in this very chamber, with her head bowed down, and I ran happily along by her side, little knowing that my mother was deep in sorrow, too young to comprehend the grief that was preying upon her heart. I knew nothing of the past; the present alone possessed any reality for me; this was happiness, and the future was but to-morrow's play." Odile smiled sadly, and resumed: