Leonora felt the blood rise blushing to her face in the dark, and her heart trembled in its beating. A friend! Oh, if she really could find a strong, true friend to help her!
"How can you?" she asked faintly.
"I do not know," he answered. "Let me try. I will try very hard. I am sure I can succeed."
She let him take her hand for one moment. It was a consent, not spoken, but given and understood. Leonora rose to her feet, and they walked silently toward the house.
"When may I come?" he asked, as he bade her good night. He spoke quite naturally, as though it were already a matter of course that he should see her every day. She hesitated a moment, standing in the doorway with the warm light of the lamp upon her.
"Come at eleven," she said at last, and with a pleasant smile she left him and went in.
The aspect of life seemed changed for her when he was gone. That afternoon she had suffered intensely. Now there was a strange, calm sense in her heart that soothed all her thoughts, and made the lonely evening sweet and restful. She asked no questions, she made no self-examination, she desired of herself no reasons for her conduct. It was enough that the storm had passed and that the calm was come, she knew not how. A man had spoken to her as no man ever spoke to her before, and the earnestness of his words still rang in her ear. He was loyal, strong, and true. He would be her friend,—he had asked it, she had granted it.
She dined alone and read a little afterwards, closing her eyes now and again to enjoy the peace that had descended upon her. For the first time in many months she was happy, supremely, quietly happy, and she asked no questions.
As for Batiscombe, he wandered homewards through the dark lanes, not heeding or caring where he went. He was wholly absorbed in recalling the events of the afternoon, revelling in the memory of Leonora's face and looks and words. He, too, was wholly disinclined to reflect on the possible consequences of his action; he took it as a matter of course that he should keep his word and be indeed a friend to her; at all events he thought neither of the future nor the past, but only ever and ever of herself, clinging tenderly to the images he called up, and asking nothing better than to call them up again, dreaming and waking. He might be in love, or he might not,—the question no longer entered his head. He was fascinated, charmed, and beside himself with enjoyment of his thoughts.
It was the state he had dreaded a day or two ago. To avoid it he had tried to escape, by a stratagem, beyond the possibility of seeing Leonora again. He had cursed his folly in going to see her. He had promised himself that he would not go again; he had reviewed his past troubles, and had remembered how plausibly they had begun. And at last he had fallen into the ancient trap, the snare of fair friendship set out to catch men and women and to destroy them. But the mouth of the pit was garnished with roses and lilies, sweet and innocent enough.