The reason why I do not—why I cannot follow you, by the next train, perhaps you will understand without my being forced to explain. I take the only method left to me of justifying myself—if it is possible for me to do that—in your eyes.
I dare not believe—I dare not hope, that what I have done can mean any more to you than passing embarrassment to a friendship whose value and permanence shall not be disturbed by my weakness if I can help it.
I love you. I ought not to have told you so. I did not mean to tell you so.
But I love you! A man situated as I am has no right to declare his feeling for a woman like yourself. This wrong have I done—not to you; I do not presume to dream that I could thereby in any way wrong you—but to myself, and to my love for you. It was my sacred secret; it is now your absolute possession. Do with it—and with me—as you will.
Emanuel Bayard.
He dispatched this note by the first mail to Campo Bello, and waited in such patience as he could command for such answer as she chose to make him. He waited a miserable time. At the end of that week came a letter in her strong, clear hand. He shut himself into his rooms, turned the key, and read:—
My dear Mr. Bayard:—I am not quite sure that I entirely understand you. But I believe in you, altogether; and what I do not understand, I am proud to take on trust.
The love of a man like yourself would be a tribute to any woman. I shall count it the honor of my life that you have given it to me. And I shall be, because of it, all the more and always,
Your loyal friend,
Helen Carruth.