A mad thought chased through his brain. It was that, if he had spoken first, this moment of insupportable pain could have been avoided, but that Wainsworth having spoken first had acquired rights, which he, as a friend, loving him dearly, would be bound to respect. He thought of the money he had just accepted from this brother-like friend. He saw the impossibility of ever saying to Henry that he too loved Garde Merrill—had loved her for seven years—had heard her name pealing like the bell of his own very being in his soul! But no—he couldn’t have spoken! He knew that. He would never dare to say that she loved him, in return for the love he had fostered for her, these seven years. No, he could not have spoken of her like this to any soul, under any circumstances. To him her name was too precious to be pronounced above a whisper to his own beating heart. He did not realize that, by that very token of her sacredness to him, he loved her far more deeply, far more sublimely than could any man who would say her name over and over and babble of his love.
He only knew that his brain was reeling. He could only see that Wainsworth, for whom he would have sacrificed almost anything, was all engrossed in this love which must mean so much. He only realized that all at once he had lost his right to tell this dearly beloved friend the truth, and with this he had also lost the right, as an honorable comrade, to plead his own soul’s yearning at the door of Garde’s heart.
Wainsworth, in his ecstatic strolling and ringing of praises, was tolling a knell for Adam, saying “Garde” and then “Garde” and again presently “Garde,” which was the only word, in all his rapid talk that reached the other’s ears.
Adam arose, unsteadily. Wainsworth had not observed his well-concealed agitation.
“I—must be going,” said Rust, huskily, turning his face away from the light. He tried to feign another yawn. “I am no longer good company. Good night.”
“What, going?” said Henry, catching him affectionately by the shoulders. “Ah, Adam, I suppose I am a bit foolish, but forgive me. You don’t know what it is to love as I have learned to love. And, dear friend, it has made me love you more—if possible—than ever.”
“Good night, Henry,” said Adam, controlling his voice with difficulty. “Good night—and God bless you.”
“Say ‘God bless Mistress Garde Merrill’—for my sake,” said Henry.
Adam looked at him oddly and repeated the words like a mere machine.