Talbot said nothing.
Brooke sat looking away, as usual, but now, at last, his eyes, which had so long avoided hers, sank down till they met her gaze. They rested there, and these two sat in silence, regarding one another with a strange, sad look of longing, as though there was between them a barrier over which they dared not pass. And that barrier arose there, invisible yet impassable—the pledge of honor and fidelity already given by each to another, at the thought of which they had now to crush down the surging passions within.
"Talbot," said Brooke once more.
"Well, Brooke," was the answer.
"Oh, Talbot! Talbot! Do you know what I wish to say?"
"Yes, Brooke," said Talbot. "I know it. I know it—all."
"Well, I will say it," said Brooke, "for I cannot keep it. Oh, Talbot! it is this—it is part of my Puritan education, perhaps. Oh, Talbot"—and his eyes rested on hers with a devouring gaze, and his voice trembled and died out into almost inaudible tones—"oh, Talbot, my younger brother Talbot! Very pleasant hast thou been unto me. Thy love to me is wonderful—passing the love of women!"
Talbot was true to her promise. She did not move an inch and she did not speak a word. But her eyes were fixed upon his; and in those eyes Brooke saw once again what he had seen before—the look of a love that had already shown itself stronger than life.
* * *
It was evening.