“Have I done you an injustice?” she asked in a low tone, after a little pause. “Then, pray, do forgive me.”
The vicar regarded her with a look of sadness, and took the little gloved hand she held out to him.
“You do me injustice in thinking that I have forgotten your position.”
Mrs. Haldane coloured deeply.
“No,” continued the vicar, “I have not forgotten that. I cannot forget it. And if I still love you with the old love of those vanished years, if I love you with a love which will colour my whole life, do not imagine that it is with any hope of a response in this world. I do your husband no injustice; I do you no dishonour. I loved you long before he knew you; I shall love you still in that after life in which he has deliberately abandoned all claim to you in the very existence of which he places no belief. Between this and then let me be your friend—your brother; let me be as one in whom you will ever find sympathy and devotedness; one who can share and understand all your doubts and distress, all your temptations and trials. I do not ask you to love me; I only ask you to let me love you.” This gust of passion was so sudden, so unexpected, so overwhelming, that almost before she was aware, he had spoken and she had listened. And now as she thought of what he said a strangely mixed sensation of doubt and pleasure awoke within her. All that he wished to be he was indeed already in her eyes—her adviser, sympathiser, friend. Only this secret unexpectant love which lived on the past and the future agitated her. And yet surely it was a pure spiritual love which asked for no return on this side of the grave. These thoughts occurred to her before she took the sober common-sense view of what he had said.
“You are taking too visionary, too feverish a view of life when you speak in that way,” she said gently. “We cannot live on dreams. Our duties, our work, our disappointments and cares are too real for us to be satisfied with any love less real. You will some day meet some one worthy of your affection, capable of sympathising with you and aiding you in your life-work—some one who will be a fitting helpmeet to you. For my part, I think that whenever we have missed what we are apt to consider a great happiness it is a sure sign that God intends some better thing for us.”
The vicar shook his head silently.
“Oh, you must have more faith!” she continued brightly. “And it ought to be very easy for you to have faith in this matter. You have all the advantages on your side. And, if I may be frank with you, I will say that I think you would be happier if you were married. You need some responsive heart, and nowhere could one more need close companionship than in such a place as Omberley.”
The rain had ceased, and as she spoke the last words she glanced up at the clouds breaking away from the sunny blue of the sky.
“I think we may safely start now. How bright and sweet everything looks after the rain; and what a fragrance the fields have!”