"Oh, you poor, foolish, foolish, man—And yet, Allan, nothing less than this would have shown you truly to me. I can speak plainly now—indeed I must, for once. Allan, you have ways—mannerisms—that are unfortunate. They raised in me a conviction that you were not genuine—that you were somehow false. Don't let it hurt now, dear, for see—this one little unstudied, impetuous act of devotion, simple and instinctive with your generous heart, has revealed your true self to me as nothing else could have done. Oh, don't you see how you have given me at last what I had to have, if we were to live on together—something in you to hold to—a foundation to rest upon—something I can know in my heart of hearts is stable—despite any outward, traitorous seeming! Now forever I can be loving, and loyal, in spite of all those signs which I see at last are misleading."
Again and again she sought to envelope him with acceptable praises, while he gazed fondly at her from that justified pride in his own stanchness—murmuring, "Nance, you please me—you please me!"
"Don't you see, dear? I couldn't reach you before. You gave me nothing to believe in—not even God. That seeming lack of genuineness in you stifled my soul. I could no longer even want to be good—and all that for the lack of this dear foolish bit of realness in you."
"No one can know better than I that my nature is a faulty one, Nance——"
"Say unfortunate, Allan—not faulty. I shall never again believe a fault of you. How stupid a woman can be, how superficial in her judgments—and what stupids they are who say she is intuitive! Do you know, I believed in Bernal infinitely more than I can tell you, and Bernal made me believe in everything else—in God and goodness and virtue and truth—in all the good things we like to believe in—yet see what he did!"
"My dear, I know little of the circumstances, but——"
"It isn't that—I can't judge him in that—but this I must judge—Bernal, when he saw I did not know who had been there, was willing I should think it was you. To retain my respect he was willing to betray you." She laughed, a little hard laugh, and seemed to be in pain. "You will never know just what the thought of that boy has been to me all these years, and especially this last week. But now—poor weak Bernal! Poor Judas, indeed!" There was a kind of anguished bitterness in the last words.
"My dear, try not to think harshly of the poor boy," remonstrated Allan gently. "Remember that whatever his mistakes, he has a good heart—and he is my brother."
"Oh! you big, generous, good-thinking boy, you— Can't you see that is precisely what he lacks—a good heart? Oh, dearest, I needed this—to show Bernal to me not less than to show you to me. There were grave reasons why I needed to see you both as I see you this moment."
There were steps along the hall and a knock at the door.