“Tell me,” said Arctura, with a little gasp.
“When I came here,” said Donal, “I thought my heart so broken that it would never love—that way, I mean—any more. But I loved God better than ever: and as one I would fain help, I loved you from the very first. But I should have scorned myself had I once fancied you loved me more than just to do anything for me I needed done. When I saw you troubled, I longed to take you up in my arms, and carry you like a lovely bird that had fallen from one of God’s nests; but never once, my lady, did I think of your caring for my love: it was yours as a matter of course. I once asked a lady to kiss me—just once, for a good-bye: she would not—and she was quite right; but after that I never spoke to a lady but she seemed to stand far away on the top of a hill against a sky.”
He stopped. Her hands on his fluttered a little, as if they would fly.
“Is she still—is she—alive?” she asked.
“Oh yes, my lady.”
“Then she may—change—” said Arctura, and stopped, for there was a stone in her heart.
Donal laughed. It was an odd laugh, but it did Arctura good.
“No danger of that, my lady! She has the best husband in the world—a much better than I should have made, much as I loved her.”
“That can’t be!”
“Why, my lady, her husband’s sir Gibbie! She’s lady Galbraith! I would never have wished her mine if I had known she loved Gibbie. I love her next to him.”