“Then why play it? What does it all matter to you? You’ve opened her
eyes. Isn’t that enough, without waiting till she’s opened yours?”
“Ah!” he said, obviously not attending to me. “But that isn’t the
whole of my difficulty. The truth is, she appears to shrink from me
too.”
“You’ll forgive me,” I said grimly. “That’s your first comforting
statement.”
“I don’t know how it is,” he continued, in a low voice,
self-pondering; “she’s frightened—distressed, before a shadow she
can’t define. Sometimes and somehow it seems as if she wants to love
me, but can’t—as if she were trying, and vainly, to shape out of a
great gloom the obstacle which separates us. And I want to help her;
and yet I, too, can’t understand. Shall I ever, I wonder?”
I stared at him. “Isn’t it plain enough? But you have love’s eyes, I
suppose.” Then I asked, a little softened, “Does she ever lose
herself, trying to piece that broken time?”
“I don’t know,” he answered. “She speaks so little. She is like a
little shy ghost—half-materialized—fearful between spirit and
matter—very sweet and pathetic.”
With the last word he turned abruptly and strode out of the room. I
was not so much astonished at his curt conclusion, as at a certain
tell-tale cough which accompanied it.
“O, hang the fellow!” I muttered. “If he’s developed tears in his
voice, I give him up.”