“Yes.”
“And there is no hope?”
“None.”
“Then there is nothing more for me to say but good-by. May you be happy.”
“I shall not be;—I have no hope;—I only try to be true to you and to myself. Oh, believe it, and pity me as I do you!”
As the words broke from Christie, she covered up her face, bowed down with the weight of remorse that made her long to atone for what she had done by any self-humiliation.
Mr. Fletcher was at his best at that moment; for real love ennobles the worst and weakest while it lasts: but he could not resist the temptation that confession offered him. He tried to be generous, but the genuine virtue was not in him; he did want Christie very much, and the knowledge of a rival in her heart only made her the dearer.
“I’m not content with your pity, sweet as it is: I want your love, and I believe that I might earn it if you would let me try. You are all alone, and life is hard to you: come to me and let me make it happier. I’ll be satisfied with friendship till you can give me more.”
He said this very tenderly, caressing the bent head while he spoke, and trying to express by tone and gesture how eagerly he longed to receive and cherish what that other man neglected.
Christie felt this to her heart’s core, and for a moment longed to end the struggle, say, “Take me,” and accept the shadow for the substance. But those last words of his vividly recalled the compact made with David that happy birthday night. How could she be his friend if she was Mr. Fletcher’s wife? She knew she could not be true to both, while her heart reversed the sentiment she then would owe them: David’s friendship was dearer than Philip’s love, and she would keep it at all costs. These thoughts flashed through her mind in the drawing of a breath, and she looked up, saying steadily in spite of wet eyes and still burning cheeks: