“May I not know?” I asked eagerly.
“When I have confirmed my belief, I will tell you,” she replied.
“Then let us dismiss the subject. It is horrible, gruesome. Look how lovely and bright the world is outside. Let us live in peace and in happiness. Let us turn aside these grim shadows which have lately fallen upon us.”
“Ah!” she exclaimed, with a sigh, “you are indeed generous to me, Mr. Biddulph. But could you be so generous, I wonder, if you knew the actual truth? Alas! I fear you would not. Instead of remaining my friend, you would hate me—just—just as I hate myself!”
“Sylvia,” I said, placing my hand again tenderly upon her shoulder and trying to calm her, and looking earnestly into her blue, wide-open eyes, “I shall never hate you. On the contrary, let me confess, now and openly,” I whispered, “let me tell you that I—I love you!”
She started, her lips parted at the suddenness of my impetuous declaration, and stood for a moment, motionless as a statue, pale and rigid.
Then I felt a convulsive tremor run through her, and her breast heaved and fell rapidly. She placed her hand to her heart, as though to calm the rising tempest of emotion within her. Her breath came and went rapidly.
“Love me!” she echoed in a strange, hoarse tone. “Ah! no, Mr. Biddulph, no, a thousand times no! You do not know what you are saying. Recall those words—I beg of you!”
And I saw by her hard, set countenance and the strange look in her eyes that she was deadly in earnest.
“Why should I recall them?” I cried, my hand still upon her shoulder. “You are not my enemy, Sylvia, even though you may be the friend of my enemies. I love you, and I fear nothing—nothing!”