“Do you mean,” he whispered, “that if it were so, you would care so much? Do you—can you care so much for anything that might happen to me?”
One of Cicely’s hands was lying on the keys. Edmond covered it with his own. She did not withdraw it—but she did not speak; only, one of the tears’ dropped quietly on to the hand that held hers. It seemed to give him courage to say more.
“Cicely,” he said softly, “will you not answer me? Is it possible you care for me so?”
Cicely looked up. “I care so much—I care for you so much that—is it horribly selfish of me?—forgive me—I could hardly regret your being blind, if—if I might be eyes to you. Oh! you know what I mean,” she went on. “Life would be worth having to me if I could use it in helping you.”
He looked at her with a whole world of feeling beyond expression in his eyes. “I can hardly believe it,” he whispered, as if to himself. “What have I done to deserve it? Cicely, are you sure you are not mistaken? Is it love, not pity—are you sure?”
“I never really knew what love meant till I learnt to love you,” she said softly.
He kissed away the tears still trembling on her eyelids, he whispered the sweet, fond foolish words that will never seem worn-out or hackneyed while time and youth last in this old world of ours, though never will they express the hundredth part of a true man’s love for a noble woman. And then he told her what by this time he had almost forgotten all about, the worst to be feared for him was hardly so bad as she had imagined; his sight was by no means irrevocably doomed, it might be yet spared to him, with care and attention there was good reason for hoping it would be so. “For now,” he said, “I shall value it doubly.”
Sir Herbert had fallen asleep by the fire long ago. Amiel had disappeared; there was nothing to interrupt the many questions these two were now eager to ask and answer.
“Why were you so cold to me the other day, when we met in the picture-room?” he said.
“What was I to think?” she answered. “Why had you never come to see us?”