He broke off blankly and stood half sorrowful, half joyous. He knew he had no right as yet to go to the comfort of the girl now sobbing beside him, but hope was not dead. And Chris, overcome by this outpouring of love, now suffered very deep sorrow, while she turned away from him and hid her face and wept. The poor distracted fool still failed to guess the truth, for he knew tint tears are the outcome of happiness as well as misery. He waited, open-mouthed, he murmured something—God knows what—then he went close and thought to touch her waist, but feared and laid his hand gently on her shoulder.
“Don’t ’e!” she said; and he began to understand and to struggle with himself to lessen her difficulty.
“Forgive me—forgive me if you can, Chris. Was I all wrong? Then I ought to have known better—but even an old stick like me—before you, Chris. Somehow I—but don’t cry. I wouldn’t have brought the tears to your eyes for all the world—dense idiot I am—”
“No, no, no; no such thing ’t all, Martin. ’Tis I was cruel not to see you didn’t knaw. You’ve been treated ill, an’ I’m cryin’ that such a gude—gude, braave, big-hearted man as you, should be brought to this for a fule of a gal like me. I ban’t worthy a handshake from ’e, or a kind word. An’—an’—Clem Hicks—Clem be tokened to me these two year an’ more. He’m the best man in the world; an’ I hate un for not tellin’ ’e—an’—an’—”
Chris sobbed herself to the end of her tears; and the man took his trial—like a man. His only thought was the sadness his blunder had brought with it for her. To misread her blush seemed in his humility a crime. His consistent unselfishness blinded him, for an instant at least, to his own grief. He blamed himself and asked pardon and prepared to get away out of her sight as soon as possible.
“Forgive me, Chris—I needn’t ask you twice, I know—such a stupid thing—I didn’t understand—I never observed: but more shame to me. I ought to have seen, of course. Anybody else would—any man of proper feeling.”
“How could ’e see it with a secret chap like him? He ought to have told ’e; I bid un speak months since; an’ I thought he had; an’ I hate un for not doing it!”
“But you mustn’t. Don’t cry any more, and forget all about it. I could almost laugh to think how blind I’ve been. We’ll both laugh next time we meet. If you’re happy, then I’ll laugh always. That’s all I care for. Now I know you ’re happy again, I’m happy, too, Chris—honour bright. And I’ll be a friend still—remember that—always—to you—to you and him.”
“I hate un, I say.”
“Why, he didn’t give me credit for being such a bat—such a mole. Now I must be away. We’ll meet pretty soon, I expect. Just forget this afternoon as though it had never been, even though it’s such a jolly sunny one. And remember me as a friend—a friend still for all my foolishness. Good-by for the present. Good-by.”