“Why?” I cried. “Why should it be injudicious? I trust you, because—because I owe my life to you—because you have already proved yourself my devoted little friend. What I beg and pray is that your friendship may, in course of time, ripen into love—that you may reciprocate my affection—that you may really love me!”
A slight hardness showed at the corners of her small mouth. Her eyes were downcast, and she swallowed the lump that arose in her throat.
She was silent, standing rigid and motionless.
Suddenly a great and distressing truth occurred to me. Did she believe that I pitied her? I hoped not. Any woman of common sensibility would almost die of shame at the thought of being loved out of pity; and, what is more, she would think none the better of the man who pitied her. The belief that “pity melts the heart to love” is an unfounded one.
So I at once endeavoured to remove the wrong impression which I feared I had conveyed.
What mad, impetuous words I uttered I can scarcely tell. I know that I raised her soft white hand to my lips and kissed it fervently, repeating my avowal and craving a word of hope from her lips.
But she again shook her head, and with sadness responded in a low, faltering tone—
“It is quite impossible, Mr. Biddulph. Leave me—let us forget all you have said. It will be better thus—far better for us both. You do not know who or what I am; you——”
“I do not know, neither do I care!” I cried passionately. “All I know, Sylvia, is that my heart is yours—that I have loved only once in my life, and it is now!”
Her slim fingers played nervously with the ribbon upon her cool summer gown, but she made no response.