“Mr. Long,” said Dick, “I seek for your good opinion more than that of any man living. I pray of you to think the best of me—not the worst.”
“And what is the best that you would have me think?” cried Mr. Long. “Just state with some show of reason what you wish me to think of you, and I promise that I will be influenced by what you say. You talked to me of loving Elizabeth Linley.”
“Nay, sir, ’twas you who talked to me of it. ’Twas you strange to say—you, to whom Miss Linley has given her promise—’twas you who talked to me of my love for her.”
“I allow it. Alas! I believed—in my ignorance of men and of their motives—in my ignorance of how men regard love—I prayed of you to allow your love for her—her love for you—to urge you to achieve something noble in life. I flattered myself that I had impressed upon you the true nature of love—the sentiment that exalts, that ennobles, that leads a man into deeds of self-sacrifice and devotion to duty; and yet—you are ready to marry Mrs. Abington.”
For a moment Dick was stung with a sense of the injustice that was being done to him.
“I am ready to marry Mrs. Abington,” he cried, “and you, sir, are ready to marry Elizabeth Linley.”
“You fool!” said Mr. Long, “I have no hope of marrying her. I knew too well that she loved you, and—as I fancied—that you loved her, ever to think of marrying her. My only hope was to see her happy—to look at her happiness through another man’s eyes—through your eyes, Dick—your eyes. But now—alas! alas!”
He spoke rapidly, almost passionately, facing Dick. His breaking off was abrupt; it seemed as if he had a great deal more to say, but that words failed him unexpectedly. His lips were parted, his hand was upraised, but he stopped short, saying:
“Alas! Alas!”
Then he turned quickly and walked out of the room.