“Well, you know recent circumstances as well as I do. I have become aware that, however it may have been once—I think now she is not indifferent to me, but I saw all the difficulties more plainly—that was not it, she is more than all the world to me—but how could I do it?”
“But, Hugh,” said Arthur, gently, “what good could it possibly do me for you to make yourself miserable?”
“No good,” said Hugh. “I know that now. But I could bear better to see you. I should have hated my own happiness.” Arthur did not answer for a moment, he was thinking how little they had any of them known of Hugh.
“But you make me out rather a dog in the manger,” he said, with a half-smile.
“No, no! You are all that is unselfish. But I was not thinking of you. I know I was mistaken, but lately I have seen things differently.”
“It has been a great comfort to me to have you to look after me lately,” said Arthur, with tact to say the most soothing thing; “and, no doubt, last year you did not know what you felt. But I should not have thought you heartless. There is one person whose feelings I think you have forgotten—Violante herself.”
“When I believed she loved me it seemed too good a thing for me to put out my hand to take,” said Hugh, in a low voice.
“Oh, Hugh,” said Arthur, sadly and earnestly, “don’t throw away a great love. Neither she nor you will ever most likely feel the like again. It is much too good to lose. It’s the best thing in the world, you know.”
“And I must have it. I, while you...” said Hugh, with much agitation.
“You have it. She loves you, and you only can make her happy.”