“Yes, she does love him; she loves him as I love you,”—and, unrealized by him, there came into his voice the vibrating notes of passion that had stirred Stellamaris to the depths at the theatre,—“with every quivering fibre, heart and spirit, body and soul.” He flung both hands before his face,—these were words of madness,—and went on hurriedly: “She loves him as John loves you, as the great souls of the earth can love, without thought of hope, just because they love.”
She looked at him, and he looked at her, and they stood, as they had been standing all the time, in the pathway, between the gay borders of flowers; and the sky was blue overhead, and the noonday sun caressed the ivy and lichens on the Georgian front of the Channel House, which basked peacefully on the farther side of the lawn. The kitten had frisked away with feline inconsequence, and Constable sprawled stiffly asleep on the gravel, like a dead dog.
“You say you love me like that?” said Stellamaris.
“You command love. Unity herself loves you like that,” replied Herold, loyally.
“What reason should she have for loving me? She should be jealous of me, as I was of her. And who is she? Who is Unity?” she asked with an imperious little stamp. “I 've been lied to about her for many years. She too lied. Will you explain her? If she's not what that woman said, what is she?”
“I 'll tell you,” he said.
He spared her nothing. It was not the hour for glossing over unpleasant things. Let her judge out of the fullness of knowledge. At his tale of the torturing—he gave her the details—she shrank back, covering her eyes and uttered a sobbing cry.
“It 's too horrible! I can't bear it; I can't believe it.”
He waited a while to give her time for recovery.
“It's true,” said he.