“And yet you cannot love me. Well, think no more of that, Theresa. Forget—”
“Never! never!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands eagerly together. “I never can forget what you have made me feel, what I must have made you suffer this day.”
“Well, if it be so, remember it, Theresa; but remember it only thus. That if you have quenched my love, if you destroyed my hope, you have but added to my regard, to my affection. Promise me that whereever you may be, however, or with whomsoever your lot shall be cast, you will always remember me as your friend, your brother; you will always call on me at your slightest need, as on one who would shed his heart’s blood to win you a moment’s happiness.”
“I will—I will,” she cried affectionately, fervently. “On whom else should I call. And God only knows,” she added, mournfully, “how soon I shall need a protector. But will you,” she continued, catching both his hands in her own, “will you be happy, Durzil?”
“I will,” he replied, firmly, returning the gentle pressure, “I will, at least in so far as it rests with man to be so, in despite of fortune. But mark me, dear Theresa, if you would have me be so, you can even yet do much toward rendering me so.”
“Can I—then tell me, tell me how, and it is done already.”
“By letting me see that you are happy.”
“Alas!” and again she clasped her hand hard over her heart, as if to still its violent beating. “Alas! Durzil.”
“And why, alas! Theresa?”
“Can we be happy at our own will?”