‘I am not acting, and I am not lying,’ he answered gravely. ‘I have been faithful to you all these years. It is no credit to me, and I ask none, for I love you truly.’
‘How am I to believe you?’ Maria asked, not contemptuously now, but still coldly. ‘Why should I?’
He raised his eyes and met hers steadily, and she saw that there was no mistaking the truth.
‘I give you my word of honour,’ he said slowly, and waited.
She could not speak then, because her joy was so great, in spite of herself; and he would not say more; he only waited while she looked steadily at the mantelpiece, choking down something and hoping that he could not see her face clearly in the rather dim light. He would not stoop to ask if she believed his word, and she was dumb. It was too much, all at once.
Presently, when she thought she could trust her voice, she tried to speak. It had seemed a long time.
‘It is——’ she began.
But she broke off, for she felt the great cry coming in the word that should have followed. Therefore instead of speaking she held out her hand to him and turned her face away from his. They were just so near that by leaning far forward he could hold her fingers. He pressed them quietly for one moment, a little hard, perhaps, but with no attempt to hold them.
‘Thank you,’ he said, not very steadily.
She had regretted the little impulsive action at once, expecting that he would kiss her hand, as almost any man might have done with less reason. But she was glad that he had not; glad, and grateful to him. Perhaps he knew it, but she was able to speak now; he should not think that he had gained a hairbreadth’s advantage.