"I mean that I love you," answered he.
I don't know what I did. I think I crept backward, away from him, till I stumbled upon a chair, and that then I fell into it. I was stunned.
"How is it that you didn't guess it?" asked he, tremulously.
I did not answer; I could not. I believe I covered my face with my hands.
"I don't want it to distress you," said he. "Whatever you may do about it, please remember that it will not have distressed me. At no time will you have brought me anything but pleasure. I think I understand a little, and I will not trouble you now. I did not mean to have told you. It slipped out because of what you said. Go home and forget it. Only, if at any time you should be lonely and need love, remember that I have always loved you. Yes, ever since you were a little girl, and used to come and have your frock mended in the house-keeper's room. I am not a sentimental sort of fellow, you know. It's not my way. I shall never be that; I shall never fret. But I shall always love you as I do now."
He did not make one step towards me; he remained where I had left him—standing in the middle of the hearth-rug. Still stunned, bewildered, ashamed, I struggled to my feet and walked towards the door.
"Good-bye," said he.
"Good-bye," murmured I, mechanically.
I stood outside in the quiet evening, on the steps of the Manor gate-way. Vaguely I remembered that as I had rung the great echoing bell there had been a craving in my heart for something that I could not reach—for something which the request I was going to make might perhaps help me to secure. Was that something love, and had I secured it?