“What I'm doing for you!” she echoed. “What hurts me most, when I think about it, is that I'll never be able to do anything.”
“Why do you say that?” he asked.
“If I only could believe that some day I might be able to help you—just a little—I should be happier. All I have, all I am I owe to you and Mrs. Maturin.”
“No, Janet,” he answered. “What you are is you, and it's more real than anything we could have put into you. What you have to give is—yourself.” His fingers trembled on her arm, but she saw him smile a little before he spoke again. “Augusta Maturin was right when she said that you were the woman I needed. I didn't realize it then perhaps she didn't—but now I'm sure of it. Will you come to me?”
She stood staring at him, as in terror, suddenly penetrated by a dismay that sapped her strength, and she leaned heavily against the fireplace, clutching the mantel-shelf.
“Don't!” she pleaded. “Please don't—I can't.”
“You can't!... Perhaps, after a while, you may come to feel differently—I didn't mean to startle you,” she heard him reply gently. This humility, in him, was unbearable.
“Oh, it isn't that—it isn't that! If I could, I'd be willing to serve you all my life—I wouldn't ask for anything more. I never thought that this would happen. I oughtn't to have stayed in Silliston.”
“You didn't suspect that I loved you?”
“How could I? Oh, I might have loved you, if I'd been fortunate—if I'd deserved it. But I never thought, I always looked up to you—you are so far above me!” She lifted her face to him in agony. “I'm sorry—I'm sorry for you—I'll never forgive myself!”