"It will be a relief," she sighed, "When every one knows. He dislikes
to be watched. I have been afraid--I could not bear to have him know
how they hate him."
"Perhaps," he forced himself to say, "they will not hate him, when
they know how you-- Lydia, you are wonderful!"
She looked up startled and put out her hand as if to prevent him from
speaking further.
But the words came in a torrent now:
"How you must despise me! I despise myself. I am not worthy, Lydia;
but if you can care--"
"Stop!" she said softly, as if she would lay the compelling finger of
silence upon his lips. "I told you I was not like other women. Can't
you see--?"
"You must marry me," he urged, in a veritable passion of self-giving.
"I want to help you! You will let me, Lydia?"
She shook her head.
"You could not help me; I am better alone."
She looked at him, the glimmer of a smile dawning in her eyes.
"You do not love me," she said; "nor I you. You are my friend. You
will remain my friend, I hope?"
She arose and held out her hand. He took it without a word. And so
they stood for a moment; each knowing without need of speech what the
other was thinking; the man sorry and ashamed because he could not
deny the truth of her words; and she compassionately willing to draw
the veil of a soothing silence over his hurts.
"I ought to tell you--" he began.
But she shook her head:
"No need to tell me anything."
"You mean," he said bitterly, "that you saw through my shallow
pretenses all the while.
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