"You love her!--that is why," Dierdre said. "My friend--doesn't love me.
He never could. I'm not worthy. No one good could love me. If he knew
the worst of me, he'd not even be my friend. And I suppose, after this,
he won't be. If, by and by, I'm not ashamed of myself for what I've
said, he'll be ashamed for me, because----"
"Don't!" Brian stopped her. "You know I mustn't let myself love you,
Dierdre. And you don't really love me. It's only pity and some kind of
repentance--for nothing at all--that you feel. But we'll be greater
friends than ever. I understand just why you spoke, and it's going to
help me a lot--like a strong tonic. You must have known it would. And if
Monsieur and Madame have forgiven us----"
"Us? What have _you_ done? If they've forgiven me----"
"They have, indeed, forgiven," said the blind Frenchman. "They even
thank you. If possible you've drawn them closer together than before."
Brian searched for Dierdre's hand, and found it. "Let us go now, and
leave them," he whispered.
So they went away, and Brian softly shut the door of the little _salon_.
"I _did_ mean every word I said!" the girl blurted out, turning upon him
in the hall. "But--I shouldn't have dared say it if I hadn't been sure
you didn't care. And even if you did care--or could--your sister
wouldn't let you. She knows me exactly as I am."
"She _shall_ know you as you are--my true and brave little friend!"
Brian said.
Pages:
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300