“It would be a way for me, if there were not something between us, Syl,” she answered,—“something that keeps us apart. I don't know what it is.”
“If I could remove it—?” he began.
Their eyes met. He suddenly took to his oars and began to pull with vigorous strokes.
“We are going to land,” he said.
They were silent untilThey were silent until they had reached the foot of one of the little promontories. Then, finding a convenient landing-place, he clambered out and helped her ashore.
“Let us sit down, dear,” he said, when he had made fast the boat. “I have a great deal to tell you.”
And there in the cool shade of the pine-trees, with the quivering noon-tide haze between them and the great stretch of lake, he told her all his story: of Constance and Leroux, of the awful frost that had frozen his heart, of his father and the elder Usher, of his own lack of right to the name he bore, of his father's death-bed. He spoke continuously in an earnest undertone, although their solitude was broken only by the twitter of birds and the soft whirring of summer insects. Ella, sitting a little way apart, kept silent and never stirred save to look up at him from time to time with piteous wonder in her eyes. And as the old man's tragedy was unfolded before her, the tears brimmed over and fell down her cheeks. Thus all the dark places were made light to her. The man's soul was revealed. She felt humbled, of small account, as though admitted unworthy into some holy place of sacred things, where sin and suffering were washed away by a divine pity. He ended abruptly.
“That's all the story,” said he; “you must judge us both as you think best.”
For a moment she sat silent, as her heart was too full for speech; but her hand, that had some while since found its way into his, gave him a soft sign of sympathy. At last words came.
“I understand all, Syl,—both you and him.”