He lies there like a log all day--despairing. And, please--what am _I_
doing here?" She turned upon him impetuously, her cheeks flaming. "They
want help--there is no one. Mrs. Fotheringham hardly ever comes. They
think Lady Lucy is in a critical state of health too. She won't admit
it--she does everything as usual. But she is very frail and ill, and it
depresses Oliver. And I am here!--useless--and helpless. Oh, why can't I
go?--why can't I go?" She laid her face upon her arms, on the bench,
hiding it from him; but he saw the convulsion of her whole frame.
Beside a passion so absolute and so piteous he felt, his own claim
shrink into nothingness--impossible, even, to give it voice again. He
straightened himself in silence; with an effort of the whole man, the
lover put on the friend.
"But you can go," he said, a little hoarsely, "if you feel like that."
She raised herself suddenly.
"How do I know that he wants me?--how do I know that he would even see
me?"
Once more her cheeks were crimson. She had shown him her love unveiled;
now he was to see her doubt--the shame that tormented her. He felt that
it was to heal him she had spoken, and he could do nothing to repay her.
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