"It is just the old story of the heart," he resumed. "Our intercourse
began so early, and partook so much of that of mere relations, that I
never could tell when the mere social feeling gave place to another
which I need not mention. You know, Rachel, what I mean."
She was silent because she was distrustful, yet her heart beat bravely
in spite of her efforts; for was not this man the object of her love,
and is not love moved with an eloquence which makes reason ashamed of
her poor figures and modes?
"Yes," he went on, "I take it for granted that you know I am only
labouring towards a confession. Yes, dear heart, for years I have
considered you as the one sole object in all this world of fair visions
formed to make me happy. You see I cannot get out of the ordinary mode
of speech. The lover is fated to adjure, to praise, and to petition
always in the same set form of words; yet is not the confession enough?"
"So far," said she; "but I have never seen any evidence of all this;" as
if she wanted more in the same strain--sweet to the ear, though
distrusted by the reason.
"No more you have," he continued, "yet you know that love is often
suspicious of itself. I have watched with my eye your movements and
attitudes when you thought I was not observing you. My ear has followed
your voice through adjoining rooms when you thought I was listening to
other sounds.
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