He caught her hand, and she felt in his the vibration of feeling that had not yet risen to his lips. “Lily—can’t I help you?” he exclaimed.
She looked at him gently. “Do you remember what you said to me once? That you could help me only by loving me? Well—you did love me for a moment; and it helped me. It has always helped me. But the moment is gone—it was I who let it go. And one must go on living. Goodbye.”
She laid her other hand on his, and they looked at each other with a kind of solemnity, as though they stood in the presence of death. Something in truth lay dead between them—the love she had killed in him and could no longer call to life. But something lived between them also, and leaped up in her like an imperishable flame: it was the love his love had kindled, the passion of her soul for his.
In its light everything else dwindled and fell away from her. She understood now that she could not go forth and leave her old self with him: that self must indeed live on in his presence, but it must still continue to be hers.
Selden had retained her hand, and continued to scrutinize her with a strange sense of foreboding. The external aspect of the situation had vanished for him as completely as for her: he felt it only as one of those rare moments which lift the veil from their faces as they pass.
“Lily,” he said in a low voice, “you mustn’t speak in this way. I can’t let you go without knowing what you mean to do. Things may change—but they don’t pass. You can never go out of my life.”
She met his eyes with an illumined look. “No,” she said. “I see that now. Let us always be friends. Then I shall feel safe, whatever happens.”
“Whatever happens? What do you mean? What is going to happen?”
She turned away quietly and walked toward the hearth.
“Nothing at present—except that I am very cold, and that before I go you must make up the fire for me.”