Althea was leaning back in her easy-chair. There was a green shade over her eyes, and her face was pale. Everard, who had never seen her before in one of her attacks, was much shocked.
"You are ill," he said, taking her hand. In spite of the warmth of the day, it felt cold and limp. Then he looked round the room. "Where is Doreen? Surely she has not left you alone?"
"Doreen is at the Home," returned Althea, in a weak voice. "There is a committee meeting. Please sit down and talk to me. I want to forget myself. No, I am not ill. The attack has passed off, only I am stupid and dull."
Dull! Everard felt strangely oppressed. The darkness; Althea's pale face, full of traces of suffering; the disguising shade, that hid the sweet eyes; the pathos, and helplessness, and utter weariness, so evident in the whole figure;—filled him with pity. Was this what she had to bear?—she, who helped others, whose whole life was devoted to good works! who had been a guardian angel to him and his!
Everard felt a sudden impulse that seemed to impel him, in spite of himself. He got up from his seat and stood beside her. Then, as she moved restlessly, as though disturbed by his action, he dropped on one knee.
"Althea, my dear," he said, huskily, "we are neither of us young, and we have both known trouble. But, if you would have it so, I should like to devote the rest of my life to you, to wait on you, and to comfort you."
Was she dreaming? Althea pushed up her shade a little wildly. But the gravity of his face left no doubt of his meaning.
"I cannot, I dare not accept it," she returned; and she trembled all over. "It is far too great a sacrifice."
"It is no sacrifice at all," was Everard's answer. "It is I who am unworthy of your goodness." And the proud humility of his tone struck to her very heart.
"I have loved you all my life," she said to him, later on. "Everard, it shall be as you wish. It will make me very happy to be your wife. I know how good you will be to me."