After many days and many nights of storms he went to the Park one morning, and for two hours,—or, until there was no chance of her coming—he walked up and down near the Seventy-second street entrance. He returned the second morning and the third. As he was pacing mechanically, like a sentry, he saw her—her erect, graceful figure, her red-brown hair that grew so beautifully about her brow and her ears; then her face, small and delicate, the skin very smooth and pale—circles under her violet eyes. At sight of him there came a sudden gleam from those eyes, like, an electric spark, and then a look of intense anxiety.
“You are ill?” she said, “Or there is some trouble?”
“I’ve been very restless of late—sleeping badly,” he replied, evasively. “And you?”
They had turned into a side path to a bench where they would not be disturbed. They looked each at the other, only to look away instantly. “Oh, I’ve worked too hard and—I fancy I’ve been too much alone.” Emily spoke carelessly, as of something in the past that no longer matters.
“Alone,” he repeated. “Alone.” When his eyes met hers, neither could turn away. And on a sudden impulse he caught her in his arms. “My dear, my dear love,” he exclaimed. And he held her close against him and pressed her cheek against his.
“I thought you would never come,” she murmured. “How I have reproached you!”
He only held her the closer for answer. And there was a long pause before he said: “I can’t let you go. I can’t. Oh, Emily, my Emily—yes, mine, mine—I’ve loved you so long—you know it, do you not? You’ve been the light of the world to me—the first light I’ve seen since I was old enough to know light from darkness. And when you go, the light goes. And in the dark the doubts come.”
“Doubts?” she said, drawing away far enough to look at him. “But how can you doubt? You must know.”
“And I do know when I see you. But when I’m in the dark and breathing the poison of my own mind—Forgive me. Don’t ask me to explain, but forgive me. Even if I had the right to be here, the right to say what I’ve been saying, still I’d be unfit. How you would condemn me, if you knew.”
“I don’t wish to know, dear, if you’d rather not tell me,” she said gently. “And you have a right to be here. And no matter what you have been or are, I’d not condemn you.” Her voice sank very low. “I’d still love you.”