“I have never spoken of you to any one since you left, last June.”
There was a ring of truth in her words, but Vane thought of Miss Gibbs and her trivial talk. He sat down in the chair in front of her.
There was nothing said between them for a long time.
“You told me then that you had forgiven me. I thought it was so noble in you! for I had acted very wrongly.” Miss Thomas was rocking nervously in her chair; she had a handkerchief in her hand; occasionally in the dark, she touched it to her eyes. Vane took hold of the end of the handkerchief, as it drooped from her hand. “I told you then that I would forgive you—and it was true,” he said.
“Then give me your friendship back. I am so lonely—without it,” she added in low tones. Vane still held the handkerchief, and moved it slowly with the rocking, alternately drawing it forward and letting it back; a subtle feminine influence seemed to be in the soft cambric, and thrilled warm in his hand.
Vane felt very kindly toward her as he went to sleep that night. After all, she was true, or meant to be, at least. It was not her fault, but his, that she had not cared to be his wife. And it seemed to him that he cared more for his opinion of her than for hers of him. He valued his faith in her more than his hope of winning her.
Again, he doubted if he was in love with her; he doubted if he ever had been; but he still felt for her a sort of tender pity. Poor, lonely, little maiden; with all her beauty she was but a child as yet; and he had expected from her the knowledge and discretion of a woman of the world. Yes, surely, she was different from the other girls in this place. He was glad that his momentary love had calmed and sweetened into friendship.
Vane himself asked her to walk with him the next evening, and they went at sunset through the grave mountain gorges. They were both very quiet; the man had almost nothing to say. They knew one another too well for ordinary conversation.
“Why are you so silent?” said she. “You never used to be so.”
“Am I silent? I do not know why. I suppose I make up for having nothing to say when I am with you by thinking of you so much when I am away. There is so much to be thought, and so little to be said.”