Their conversation then turned to love, and to their feelings towards each other.  How could it be helped?  And Wilton told her all; how the passion had grown upon him, how he had struggled hard against it, how not even despair itself had been able to crush it; how it had gone on and increased in spite of himself; how intense, how ardent it had become.  He could not tell her exactly, at least he would not, what he had felt on her account, when he believed that she was likely to become the bride of Lord Sherbrooke; but he told her fully, ay, and eloquently, what agony of mind he had endured when he thought of seeing her give her hand to any other man, without affording him an apparent chance of even making an effort for himself.  In short, he gave her the whole picture of his personal feelings; and there is no woman that is not gratified at seeing such a picture displayed, when she is herself the object.  But to a mind such as that of Lady Laura, and to feelings such as were in her bosom, the tale offered higher and nobler sources of delight.  The love, the deep love, which she felt, and which was now acknowledged to her own heart, required every such assurance of full and ample return as his words afforded, to render it confident and happy.  But from the display of his feelings which he now made, she felt, she saw, she knew that she was loved as she could wish to be—­loved as fully, as intensely, as deeply, as she herself loved—­loved with all those feelings, high, and bright, and sweet, which assured her beyond all question that the affection which she had inspired would be permanent as well as ardent.

Wilton won her, too, to speak upon the same subject as himself, though, of course, he could not expect her to dwell upon what she felt in the same manner.  There was a great difference:  on the one hand, all the sensations of his heart towards her were boldly avowed and minutely detailed; the history of his love was told in language straightforward, eager, and powerful.  The love of her bosom, on the contrary, was shadowed forth rather than spoken, admitted rather than told, her feelings were referred to, but not depicted.

“You make me glad, Wilton,” she said, “by telling me all this, for I almost feared—­and was teasing my own heart about it at the rectory, lest I should have done the unwomanly thing of loving first—­I will not call it, being too easily won; for I should certainly despise the woman who thought anything necessary to win her, when once she really loved, further than the conviction of her lover’s sincerity, and honour, and nobility of spirit.  But yet I thought, that even you might somewhat despise me, if you found that I had loved you before you loved me.  And yet, Wilton,” she added, after a momentary pause, “I cannot help thinking that even if it had been so, I should have been more pardonable than many people, on account of the very great services you have rendered me at various times, and the perils you have encountered in my behalf.  How could I help loving a man who has twice risked his life for me?”