ce matched his own. "But I would give the
world if he could--and would!"

There was a pause. Steadily the woman gained upon her own weakness and
beat it down. She resumed:

"I must tell you--because--it is the only way--for us two--to be real
friends again--and I want a friend so much. The news of Oliver is--is
terrible. The Vicar had just seen Mr. Lankester--who is staying there.
He is nearly blind--and the pain!" Her hand clinched--she threw her head
back. "Oh! I can't speak of it! And it may go on for years. The doctors
seem to be all at sea. They say he _ought_ to recover--but they doubt
whether he will. He has lost all heart--and hope--he can't help himself.
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.
He could neither chide her for a quixotic self-sacrifice, which might
never be admitted or allowed; nor protest, on Marsham's behalf, against
it, for he knew, in truth, nothing of the man; least of all could he
plead for himself. He could only sit, staring like a fool, tongue-tied;
till Diana, mastering, for his sake, the emotion to which, partly also
for his sake, she had given rein, gradually led the conversation back to
safer and cooler ground. All the little involuntary arts came in by
which a woman regains command of herself, and thereby of her companion.
Her hat tired her head;