But the hand he reached for did not rise at his command, though Oswald started erect and faced him with manly earnestness.
“I should have to think long and deeply,” he said, “before I took upon myself responsibilities like these. I am broken in mind and heart, Orlando, and must remain so till God mercifully delivers me. I should be a poor assistant to you—a drag, rather than a help. Deeply as I deplore it, hard as it may be for one of your temperament to understand so complete an overthrow, I yet must acknowledge my condition and pray you not to count upon me in any plans you may form. I know how this looks—I know that as your brother and truest admirer, I should respond, and respond strongly, to such overtures as these, but the motive for achievement is gone. She was my all; and while I might work, it would be mechanically. The lift, the elevating thought is gone.”
Orlando stood a moment studying his brother’s face; then he turned shortly about and walked the length of the room. When he came back, he took up his stand again directly before Oswald, and asked, with a new note in his voice:
“Did you love Edith Challoner so much as that?”
A glance from Oswald’s eye, sadder than any tear.
“So that you cannot be reconciled?”
A gesture. Oswald’s words were always few.
Orlando’s frown deepened.
“Such grief I partly understand,” said he. “But time will cure it. Some day another lovely face—”
“We’ll not talk of that, Orlando.”