At her answer he looked at her earnestly, for the first time in months, it seemed to her, and with a look she could not endure without emotion, so far-away and mournful, yet so searching, was it. It was a gaze like that of one dying, who sees the impassable gulf widening between his eyes and what they rest upon. How many, many glances she had encountered of his!—laughing, critical, impatient, in the old days that now seemed centuries past; superficially kind, penitent, disregardful, careless, but never from the depths of his soul till now. Now she knew at last that his soul had depths, and that, as she stood before him, he was aware of her, and saw her as she was.
“Annette,” he said, almost in a whisper, “words cannot tell my sense of the wrong and insult which I have heaped upon you—on you more than all the rest put together.”
“Do not speak of that,” she said, trying still to be calm.
“Of all the women I have hurt or destroyed, you are the noblest,” he went on, seeming not to have heard her.
She drew her breath in quickly, and stood mute, looking down, and some strong band that had been holding her down—how long she knew not, perhaps for years, perhaps for her whole life—loosened, and she felt herself growing upright. She was like the graceful silver birch that has been bowed over by the snow, flake after flake, till its head touches the ground, when the warm sun begins to melt its burden, and it lifts a little, and feels itself elastic.
In days when Honora Pembroke was his ideal, “noble” was the word he applied to her, and Annette Ferrier always felt herself grow small when she heard him utter it.
“Of all women I have ever known, you are the noblest and most lovely,” he said slowly. “I was blind. Too late I have learned [pg 679] that. And if I had a wish left, it would be that God would reunite us in heaven.”
The snows had melted, and she stood upright at last.
There was a confused whispering in her brain. Since she was loved and honored, why need they part? She could comfort him, be at his side always, and help him to win back peace, if not happiness. They would perform works of charity together, and in humbling herself she would raise him.
She lifted her eyes, and opened her lips to speak some such word, but checked herself on seeing him turn away. His face was no longer calm and sad, but full of anguish. All the enticements of human life had assailed his soul, and were fighting against its one stern tenant, remorse. Silently, and with a feeling of unacknowledged disappointment, she awaited the result, scarcely doubting that he would yield. When had he not yielded? was the bitter question that rose in spite of her, only to be thrust down again under many excuses, as she called to mind his sufferings and his isolation.