I discovered that John Marvel knew he was in love with Eleanor Leigh, though how he knew it I never learned. "He never told her," he said, "but died with it locked in his heart—as was best," he added after a pause, and then he looked out of the window, and as he did not say anything from which I could judge whether he knew why Wolffert never told his love, I did not tell what I knew. It may have been the slowly fading light which made his face so sad. I remember that a long silence fell between us, and it came over me with a new force how much more unselfishly both these men had loved than I and how much nobler both had always been—the living and the dead. And I began battling with myself to say something which I felt I ought to say, but had not courage enough.
Presently, John said very slowly, almost as if he were speaking to himself, "I believe if you keep on, she will marry you, and I believe you will help each other—I know she will help you." His arm was resting on the table.
I leant over and laid my hand on his arm.
"I once thought it certain I should win her. I am far from sure that I shall now. I am not worthy of her—but I shall try to be. You alone, John, of all the men I know, are. I cannot give her up—but it is only honest to tell you that I have less hope than I had."
He turned to me with a sad little smile on his face and shook his head.
"I would not give her up if I were you. You are not good enough for her, but no one is, and you will grow better."
For the first time, I almost thought him handsome.
"You are, old man."
"Me! Oh! no, I am not—I have my work to do—it is useless to talk to me—you keep on."
He picked up a paper and began to read, and I observed for the first time that he had taken off his glasses. I made some remark on it.