“No,” he said at last. “No, my dear, dear child; I have no word to say to you! I fear to speak a word. The happiness that a man builds up for himself may be destroyed by the utterance of one word. I wish to remain happy—watching your happiness—in silence. Perhaps I may understand you—I may understand something of the thought which gratitude suggests to you.”
“Ah, gratitude!” said she in a tone that was sad even in its scornfulness. She had not turned her head toward him.
“Yes, I may understand something of your nature—the sweetest, the tenderest that ever made a woman blessed; but I understand myself better, and I know in what direction lies my happiness—in what direction lies your happiness.”
“Ah! are you sure that they are two—that they are separate?” said she. And now she moved her head slowly so that she was looking into his face.
There was a long pause. She could not see the movement of his hands. He still held them behind him. At last he said slowly—
“I am sure, my dear one. Ah, I am but too sure. Would to God there were a chance of my being mistaken! Ah, dear, dear child, it is my lot to look on happiness through another man's eyes. And, believe me, there is more happiness in doing so than the world knows of. No, no! Do not speak—for God's sake, do not speak to me! Do not say those words which are trembling on your lips, for they mean unhappiness to both of us.”
She continued looking at him; then suddenly, with a little cry, she turned away, and throwing herself down on the sofa, burst into tears, with her face upon one of the arms, which her hands held tightly.
After a time he went to her side and laid a hand upon her hair.
She raised her head and looked up to him with streaming eyes. She put a hand out to him, saying in a low but clear voice—
“You are right. Oh, I know you are right. I will not speak that word; but I can never—never cease to think of you as the best—the noblest—the truest of men. You have been my best friend—my only friend—and there is no dearer name that a man can be called by a woman.”