“Do you, Virginia—why?” he asked.
“Because I am indebted to you for so many kindnesses.”
He made a feeble denial with his hand.
“You must not doubt that justice is all on your side. I want to tell you one thing; and it was for this that I sent for you. My motives were altogether different from what you must have supposed them to have been. Later, perhaps, they became horribly mixed; for things divide themselves sharply into two sorts—right and wrong—”
He paused, and lay weakly back on his pillows; his eyes, brilliant and searching, were fixed on her face. He wanted her to understand, to see clearly, what was so plain to him; that she might believe in him again, as she had once believed in him.
“You were very kind, then,” she said. “After Stephen's death—”
“How long ago it seems!”
“You must have suffered!” she said pityingly.
“At first I expected that the matter would right itself. I wished to compel you to marry me, Virginia, I dreaded to see you become independent of me; I wanted to keep you where you would always have to come to me. I wanted to serve you, and I thought love might come out of dependence; but I could never have really known you; my God! how I have loved you, Virginia—I think I still love you! I told you once I should die loving you—and perhaps I am dying now.”
She gave him a startled glance, but his pale face had undergone no change. He was still smiling up at her—wistfully, tenderly.