“Me!” she cried, with surprise. “What have I done!”
“More than you know. I felt sometimes as if I were writing for you only. I judged of everything by what I thought would be your opinion of it.”
Mrs. Murray, somewhat embarrassed, did not answer. He looked away, as though forcing himself to speak, but nervous.
“You know, it seems to me as though everyone were surrounded by an invisible ring which cuts him off from the rest of the world. Each of us stands entirely alone, and each step one must judge for one’s self, and none can help.”
“D’you think so?” she answered. “If people only knew, they would be so ready to do anything they could.”
“Perhaps, but they never know. The things about which it’s possible to ask advice are so unimportant. There are other things, in which life and death are at stake, about which a man can never say a word; yet if he could it would alter so much.” He turned and faced her gravely. “A man may have acted in a certain way, causing great pain to someone who was very dear to him, yet if all the facts were known that person might—excuse and pardon.”
Mrs. Murray’s heart began to beat, and she had some difficulty in preserving the steadiness of her voice.
“Does it much matter? In the end everyone resigns himself. I think an onlooker who could see into human hearts would be dismayed to find how much wretchedness there is which men bear smiling. We should all be very gentle to our fellows if we realized how dreadfully unhappy they were.”
Again there was silence, but strangely enough, the barrier between them appeared suddenly to have fallen, and now, though neither spoke, there was no discomfort, Basil got up.
“Good-bye, Mrs. Murray. I’m glad you let me come to-day.”