Earle was deeply moved by his kinsman’s manliness, and touched by his confession of his hopeless love for Editha. Still clasping the hand that had been extended so frankly to him, he said, in a voice that was not quite steady:
“With such a spirit as that, you should be master here at Wycliffe, and not I. It seems to me unjust that your whole life should be destroyed thus, and mine built up out of its ruins. If it were possible for me to share my inheritance with you equally, I would gladly do it; but I suppose the entail forbids that.”
“Yes, it could not be, even if I were willing to accept such an obligation,” Paul Tressalia said, not unkindly, yet with a little show of spirit.
Earle regarded him with admiration.
“I have heard of you before—how true and good you are, and I am proud to know that I have one such relative in the world. If you cannot accept any aid from me, will you not stay with me as my adviser, my elder brother, my friend?” he said, in low, earnest tones.
But Tressalia shook his head, a look of pain leaping to his eyes.
“I fear that would not be possible,” he said; “your own heart will tell you that I could not remain here after—after you come here permanently.”
Earle saw that it could not be, and sighed. He longed to comfort him, but what could he say?
Delicacy forbade his expressing any pity for his suffering and loss, for that would be but vaunting his own happiness and prosperity.
“We can be friends, can we not?” he asked wistfully.