"I should deserve evil things if I did not," he said, passing his hand over his eyes, to shut out the sight of the innocence that faced him.
Suddenly it came over him that she must expect him to say more, to be passionate, to say that he loved her beyond all mortal things, and set her far above immortality itself, and such unproportioned phrases of the love-sick when the instant healing of response touches the fainting heart. All that, she must expect. Why not? Other women expected it, and heard all they desired, well or ill spoken, according to the man's eloquence, but always well according to their own hearts. Surely he must say something also. He must tell her how he had dreamed of this instant, how her white shade had visited and soothed his dismal hours—and the rest. As he thought what he should say, love's phrase-book turned to a grim and fearful blasphemy in his own inner ears. But she expected it, of course, and he must speak, when he would have given the life he had to save her from himself and to save himself from the last fall, below which there could be no falling. It was almost impossible. If he had not loved Matilde Macomer still, he would have turned even then and spoken the truth, come what might. But that remained. He gathered the weakness of his sin into an unreal and evil strength, as best he could, and for Matilde's sake he spoke such words as he could find—lies against himself, against the poor rag of honour in which he still believed, even while he was tearing it from the nakedness of a sin it could not clothe—lies against love, against manhood, against God.
"I have loved you long, Veronica," he began. "I had not hoped to see this day."
The awful struggle of his own soul against its last destruction sent a strong vibration through his softened voice, and lent the base lie he spoke such deadly beauty as might dwell in the face of Antichrist, to deceive all living things to sin.
He was still standing, and his hand lay out towards Veronica, on the shelf before the clock. Slowly she turned towards him, at the first sound of his words, wondering and thrilled.
"Is it long? I do not know," he continued. "It is more than a year, since I first knew what this love meant. For I have loved little in my life—little, and I am glad, though I have been sorry for it often, for all I ever had, or have, or am to have till I die, is for you, Veronica, all of it—the love of heart and hand and soul, to live for you and die for you, in trust and faith, and love of you. You wonder? Beloved—if you knew yourself, you would not wonder that I love you so! There is no man who could save himself, if he lived by your side, as I have lived. You smile at that? Well—you are too young to know yourself, but I am not—I know—I know—I thought I knew too well, and must pay dear for knowing how one might love you and live. But it is not too well, now. It is life, not death. It is hope, not despair—it is all that life and joy can mean, in the highest."
He paused, his eyes in hers, his hand still stretched out and lying on the shelf. Gently hers sought it and lay in it, and there was light in her face, for she believed. And he, in his suffering within, was moved; as a man is, who, being in his life but a poor knave, plays bright truth and splendid passion on a stage, and the contrast that is between being and seeming, in his heart, makes him play greatness with a strong will, born of certain despair.
"I am glad," said Veronica, softly, and she looked down, while her hand still lingered in his, and he went on.
"It is not easy for a man like me to believe that he has all the world in his grasp—in the hold of his heart, to be his as long as he lives. But you are making me believe it now—all that I did not dare to think of as even most dimly possible in my lonely life—that is why I thank you, that is why I bless you, and adore you, and love you as I do, as I can never make you guess, Veronica, as I scarcely hope you dream that a man may love a woman. That is why I would die for you, Veronica, if God willed that I might!"
The great words lacked no outward sign of living truth. His hand burned hers, and closed upon it, pressure for word, to the end, in the terrible play of acted earnestness. Even his eyes brightened and filled themselves, determined to lie with all of him that lied to her.