He rained kisses on her head resting droopingly against him.
“How can a man like you love me?” she asked with wistful uncertainty.
“A man like me?” Hugh groaned. “Ah, but I do—I do! You must stay with me always. Sylvie, somehow we will be married—you—and I!”
“Now it frightens me,” she whispered, “being blind. It does frighten me now. I want so terribly to see your face, your eyes. Oh, you mustn’t marry a blind girl, a waif. You’ve been so noble, you’ve suffered so terribly. You ought to have some wonderful woman who would understand your greatness, would see all that you are.”
“Now,” he sighed, “now I am great—because you think I am; that’s water to me—after a lifetime of thirst.”
“Hugh, am I good enough for you?” She was sobbing and laughing at the same time.
It was too much for him. He drew himself gently away. He whispered: “I can’t bear being loved—being happy. I’ll go out by myself for a bit alone. Sylvie, Sylvie! Every instant I—I worship you!” He threw himself down before her and pressed his face against her knees. She caressed the thick, grizzled hair. He stood up and then stumbled away from her, more blind than she, out of the house into the gathering night.
CHAPTER VI
In the big, rudely carved chair Sylvie leaned back her head and pressed her hands to her unseeing eyes. She was not sorry that Hugh had left her, for she was oppressed and unnerved by her own emotions. Until he had kissed her hair, she had not known that she loved him—or rather loved an invisible presence that had enveloped her in an atmosphere of sympathy, of protection, that had painted itself, so to speak, in heroic colors and proportions against her darkness, that had revealed both strength and tenderness in touch and movement, and warm, deep voice.