Surrey had
changed his place, and stood fronting her. As the last word fell, she
looked at him, and the two faces saw in each but a reflection of the
same passion and pain: pallid, with eyes burning from an inward
fire,--swayed by the same emotion,--she bent forward as he, stretching
forth his arms, in a stifling voice cried, "Come!"
Bent, but for an instant; then, by a superhuman effort, turned from him,
and put out her hand with a gesture of dissent, though she could not
control her voice to speak a word.
At that he came close to her, not touching her hand or even her dress,
but looking into her face with imploring eyes, and whispering,
"Francesca, my darling, speak to me! say that you love me! one word! You
are breaking my heart!"
Not a word.
"Francesca!"
She had mastered her voice. "Go!" she then said, beseechingly. "Oh, why
did you ask me? why did I let you come?"
"No, no," he answered. "I cannot go,--not till you answer me."
"Ah!" she entreated, "do not ask! I can give no such answer as you
desire. It is all wrong,--all a mistake. You do not comprehend."
"Make me, then."
She was silent.
"Forgive me. I am rude: I cannot help it. I will not go unless you say,
'I do not love you.' Nothing but this shall drive me away."
Francesca's training in her childhood had been by a Catholic governess;
she never quite lost its effect. Now she raised her hand to a little
gold cross that hung at her neck, her fingers closing on it with a
despairing clasp.
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