"Ah, what a beautiful flower!" suddenly cried Rosabella, in order to break the silence, then stooped and plucked a violet with an appearance of the greatest eagerness, though, in fact, nothing at that moment could have been more a matter of indifference.
"It is a very beautiful flower, indeed," gravely observed Flodoardo, and was out of all patience with himself for having made so flat a speech.
"Nothing can surpass this purple," continued Rosabella; "red and blue so happily blended, that no painter can produce so perfect a union.""Red and blue--the one the symbol of happiness, the other of affection. Ah, Rosabella! how enviable will be that man's lot on whom your hand shall bestow such a flower. Happiness and affection are not more inseparably united than the red and blue which purple that violet.""You seem to attach a value to the flower of which it is but little deserving.""Might I but know on whom Rosabella will one day bestow what that flower expresses. Yet, this is a subject which I have no right to discuss. I know not what has happened to me to-day. I make nothing but blunders and mistakes. Forgive my presumption, lady. I will hazard such forward inquiries no more."He was silent. Rosabella was silent also.
But though they could forbid their lips to betray their hidden affection; though Rosabella said not--"Thou art he on whom this flower shall be bestowed:" though Flodoardo's words had not expressed--"Rosabella, give me that violet, and that which it implies"--oh, their eyes were far from being silent. Those treacherous interpreters of secret feelings acknowledged more to each other than their hearts had yet acknowledged to themselves.
Flodoardo and Rosabella gazed on each other with looks which made all speech unnecessary. Sweet, tender, and enthusiastic was the smile which played around Rosabella's lips when her eyes met those of the youth whom she had selected from the rest of mankind; and with mingled emotions of hope and fear did the youth study the meaning of that smile. He understood it, and his heart beat louder, and his eye flamed brighter.
Rosabella trembled; her eyes could no longer sustain the fire of his glances, and a modest blush overspread her face and bosom.
"Rosabella!" at length murmured Flodoardo, unconsciously;"Flodoardo!" sighed Rosabella, in the same tone.
"Give me that violet!" he exclaimed, eagerly, then sank at her feet, and in a tone of the most humble supplication repeated, "Oh, give it to me!"Rosabella held the flower fast.
"Ask for it what thou wilt. If a throne can purchase it, I will pay that price, or perish. Rosabella, give me that flower!"She stole one look at the handsome suppliant and dared not hazard a second.
"My repose, my happiness, my life--nay, even my glory, all depend on the possession of that little flower. Let that be mine, and here Isolemnly renounce all else which the world calls precious."The flower trembled in her snowy hand. Her fingers clasped it less firmly.
"You hear me, Rosabella? I kneel at your feet; and am I then in vain a beggar?"The word "beggar" recalled to her memory Camilla and her prudent counsels. "What am I doing?" she said to herself. "Have Iforgotten my promise, my resolution? Fly, Rosabella, fly, or this hour makes you faithless to yourself and duty."1
"I understand you, Flodoardo," said she; "and having understood you, will never suffer this subject to be renewed. Here let us part, and let me not again be offended by a similar presumption. Farewell!"She turned from him with disdain, and left Flodoardo rooted to his place with sorrow and astonishment.
