Part 20 (1/2)

”Because what you say is so unjust to yourself,” she answered, nervously and scarcely seeing him where he sat. ”You seem to think it is all on your side. And yet, I just told you that I was fond of you.”

”I think it is a fondness greater than friends.h.i.+p that we feel for each other,” he said, presently, thrusting the probe of a new hope into the tortured wound.

”Yes?” she spoke faintly, with averted face.

”Something more--a stronger tie, a closer bond. Unorna, do you believe in the migration of the soul throughout ages, from one body to another?”

”Sometimes,” she succeeded in saying.

”I do not believe in it,” he continued. ”But I see well enough how men may, since I have known you. We have grown so intimate in these few weeks, we seem to understand each other so wholly, with so little effort, we spend such happy, peaceful hours together every day, that I can almost fancy our two selves having been together through a whole lifetime in some former state, living together, thinking together, inseparable from birth, and full of an instinctive, mutual understanding. I do not know whether that seems an exaggeration to you or not. Has the same idea ever crossed your mind?”

She said something, or tried to say something, but the words were inaudible; he interpreted them as expressive of a.s.sent, and went on, in a musing tone, as though talking quite as much to himself as to her.

”And that is the reason why it seems as though we must be more than friends, though we have known each other so short a time. Perhaps it is too much to say.”

He hesitated, and paused. Unorna breathed hard, not daring to think of what might be coming next. He talked so calmly, in such an easy tone, it was impossible that he could be making love. She remembered the vibrations in his voice when, a month ago, he had told her his story.

She remembered the inflection of the pa.s.sionate cry he had uttered when he had seen the shadow of Beatrice stealing between them, she knew the ring of his speech when he loved, for she had heard it. It was not there now. And yet, the effort not to believe would have been too great for her strength.

”Nothing that you could say would be--” she stopped herself--”would pain me,” she added, desperately, in the attempt to complete the sentence.

He looked somewhat surprised, and then smiled.

”No. I shall never say anything, nor do anything, which could give you pain. What I meant was this. I feel towards you, and with you, as I can fancy a man might feel to a dear sister. Can you understand that?”

In spite of herself she started. He had but just said that he would never give her pain. He did not guess what cruel wounds he was inflicting now.

”You are surprised,” he said, with intolerable self-possession. ”I cannot wonder. I remember to have very often thought that there are few forms of sentimentality more absurd than that which deceives a man into the idea that he can with impunity play at being a brother to a young and beautiful woman. I have always thought so, and I suppose that in whatever remains of my indolent intelligence I think so still. But intelligence is not always so reliable as instinct. I am not young enough nor foolish enough either, to propose that we should swear eternal brother-and-sisterhood--or perhaps I am not old enough, who can tell? Yet I feel how perfectly safe it would be for either of us.”

The steel had been thrust home, and could go no farther. Unorna's unquiet temper rose at his quiet declaration of his absolute security.

The colour came again to her cheek, a little hotly, and though there was a slight tremor in her voice when she spoke, yet her eyes flashed beneath the drooping lids.

”Are you sure it would be safe?” she asked.

”For you, of course there can be no danger possible,” he said, in perfect simplicity of good faith. ”For me--well, I have said it. I cannot imagine love coming near me in any shape, by degrees or unawares.

It is a strange defect in my nature, but I am glad of it since it makes this pleasant life possible.”

”And why should you suppose that there is no danger for me?” asked Unorna, with a quick glance and a silvery laugh. She was recovering her self-possession.

”For you? Why should there be? How could there be? No woman ever loved me, then why should you? Besides--there are a thousand reasons, one better than the other.”

”I confess I would be glad to hear a few of them, my friend. You were good enough just now to call me young and beautiful. You are young too, and certainly not repulsive in appearance. You are gifted, you have led an interesting life--indeed, I cannot help laughing when I think how many reasons there are for my falling in love with you. But you are very rea.s.suring, you tell me there is no danger. I am willing to believe.”

”It is safe to do that,” answered the Wanderer with a smile, ”unless you can find at least one reason far stronger than those you give. Young and pa.s.sably good-looking men are not rare, and as for men of genius who have led interesting lives, many thousands have been pointed out to me.

Then why, by any conceivable chance, should your choice fall on me?”

”Perhaps because I am so fond of you already,” said Unorna, looking away lest her eyes should betray what was so far beyond fondness. ”They say that the most enduring pa.s.sions are either born in a single instant, or are the result of a treacherously increasing liking. Take the latter case. Why is it impossible, for you or for me? We are slipping from mere liking into friends.h.i.+p, and for all I know we may some day fall headlong from friends.h.i.+p into love. It would be very foolish no doubt, but it seems to me quite possible. Do you not see it?”

The Wanderer laughed lightly. It was years since he had laughed, until this friends.h.i.+p had begun.

”What can I say?” he asked. ”If you, the woman, acknowledge yourself vulnerable, how can I, the man, be so discourteous as to a.s.sure you that I am proof? And yet, I feel that there is no danger for either of us.”