He forbore to speak to her until he found this sudden gush of feeling was subsiding into sobs, and then in low, soft accents, he again endeavoured to breathe comfort to her afflicted and terrified spirit.
"My Flora," he said, "remember that there are warm hearts that love you. Remember that neither time nor circumstance can change such endearing affection as mine. Ah, Flora, what evil is there in the whole world that love may not conquer, and in the height of its noble feelings laugh to scorn."
"Oh, hush, hush, Charles, hush."
"Wherefore, Flora, would you still the voice of pure affection? I love you surely, as few have ever loved. Ah, why would you forbid me to give such utterance as I may to those feelings which fill up my whole heart?"
"No--no--no."
"Flora, Flora, wherefore do you say no?"
"Do not, Charles, now speak to me of affection or love. Do not tell me you love me now."
"Not tell you I love you! Ah, Flora, if my tongue, with its poor eloquence to give utterance to such a sentiment, were to do its office, each feature of my face would tell the tale. Each action would show to all the world how much I loved you."
"I must not now hear this. Great God of Heaven give me strength to carry out the purpose of my soul."
"What purpose is it, Flora, that you have to pray thus fervently for strength to execute? Oh, if it savour aught of treason against love's majesty, forget it. Love is a gift from Heaven. The greatest and the most glorious gift it ever bestowed upon its creatures. Heaven will not aid you in repudiating that which is the one grand redeeming feature that rescues human nature from a world of reproach."
Flora wrung her hands despairingly as she said,--
"Charles, I know I cannot reason with you. I know I have not power of language, aptitude of illustration, nor depth of thought to hold a mental contention with you."
"Flora, for what do I contend?"
"You, you speak of love."
"And I have, ere this, spoken to you of love unchecked."
"Yes, yes. Before this."
"And now, wherefore not now? Do not tell me you are changed."
"I am changed, Charles. Fearfully changed. The curse of God has fallen upon me, I know not why. I know not that in word or in thought I have done evil, except perchance unwittingly, and yet--the vampyre."
"Let not that affright you."
"Affright me! It has killed me."
"Nay, Flora,--you think too much of what I still hope to be susceptible of far more rational explanation."
"By your own words, then, Charles, I must convict you. I cannot, I dare not be yours, while such a dreadful circumstance is hanging over me, Charles; if a more rational explanation than the hideous one which my own fancy gives to the form that visits me can be found, find it, and rescue me from despair and from madness."
They had now reached the summer-house, and as Flora uttered these words she threw herself on to a seat, and covering her beautiful face with her hands, she sobbed convulsively.
"You have spoken," said Charles, dejectedly. "I have heard that which you wished to say to me."
"No, no. Not all, Charles."
"I will be patient, then, although what more you may have to add should tear my very heart-strings."
"I--I have to add, Charles," she said, in a tremulous voice, "that justice, religion, mercy--every human attribute which bears the name of virtue, calls loudly upon me no longer to hold you to vows made under different auspices."
"Go on, Flora."
"I then implore you, Charles, finding me what I am, to leave me to the fate which it has pleased Heaven to cast upon me. I do not ask you, Charles, not to love me."
"'Tis well. Go on, Flora."
"Because I should like to think that, although I might never see you more, you loved me still. But you must think seldom of me, and you must endeavour to be happy with some other--"
"You cannot, Flora, pursue the picture you yourself would draw. These words come not from your heart."
"Yes--yes--yes."
"Did you ever love me?"
"Charles, Charles, why will you add another pang to those you know must already rend my heart?"
"No, Flora, I would tear my own heart from my bosom ere I would add one pang to yours. Well I know that gentle maiden modesty would seal your lips to the soft confession that you loved me. I could not hope the joy of hearing you utter these words. The tender devoted lover is content to see the truthful passion in the speaking eyes of beauty. Content is he to translate it from a thousand acts, which, to eyes that look not so acutely as a lover's, bear no signification; but when you tell me to seek happiness with another, well may the anxious question burst from my throbbing heart of, 'Did you ever love me, Flora?'"