He
told me of his love for painting, of his great desire to do something
worthy of the best, as he expressed it.
"And my first picture is to be yourself," he said; "you shall speak on
canvas. You think yourself so plain; oh! you are not plain, Miss Emily;
I love you, and you are my wild flower, are you not? Speak to me, call
me your Louis! Love me, as I do you. Ah! if you did not love me I could
not stay here till to-morrow--you think me young and presumptuous--you
say I do not know myself and I will change--I will not change--I am not
young--I want great love, such as comes to me through your eyes, to help
me--and you love me--you are my precious wild flower--I shall live for
you and my little mother."
No word had escaped my lips, and now he paused, and looking at me, said:
"Tell me if you do not love me!--tell me, Emily."
Why did I--how could I answer him as I did--so cold; my voice fell upon
my own ear as I said slowly:
"I don't know, Louis--you are so strange."
What an answer! He quivered and the tears came to his eyes; he dashed
them aside and said:
"How long shall I wait for you? say it now and help me; your spirit
loves me; I can hear it speak to me."
I thought for the moment he was crazed. He divined my thought and said:
"No, not crazy, but I want your help."
"Oh, Louis!" I cried, "I don't know, I am so ignorant--why was I born
so? don't treat me unkindly, you are dear to me, dear, but I can't
talk.
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