‘Have I? I did not know that. Who are they?’
‘Well, if there are few, it is your own choice. Those you possess are devoted to you. Look at myself, for instance; have I not been your firm friend for years?’
‘You have indeed,’ she said huskily.
‘There are experiences in life which mercifully have been spared you, Eliza. These are the things which make the real tragedies, the things which may go on before the eyes of our neighbours without their seeing anything of them. I would rather die to-morrow than live my life over again. You know I speak truly; I know that you know; you made me understand that one day.’
She had turned away during his speech, for she could not trust her face, but at these last words she looked round.
‘I have never forgiven myself for the pain I caused you,’ she said; ‘I have never got over that. I am so rough—I know it—have you forgiven me, Robert?’
‘It took me a little time, but I have done it,’ replied he, with an approving glance at the generosity he saw in his own heart.
‘I behaved cruelly—cruelly,’ she said.
‘Forget it,’ said Fullarton; ‘let us only remember what has been pleasant in our companionship. Do you know, my lady, years ago I was fool enough to imagine myself in love with you? You never knew it, and I soon saw my folly; mercifully, before you discovered it. We should have been as wretched in marriage as we have been happy in friendship. We should never have suited each other.’
‘What brought you to your senses?’ inquired Lady Eliza with a laugh. She was in such agony of heart that speech or silence, tears or laughter, seemed all immaterial, all component parts of one overwhelming moment.