"Because what you say is so unjust to yourself," she answered, nervously and scarcely seeing him where he sat. "You seem to think it is all on your side. And yet, I just told you that I was fond of you."

"I think it is a fondness greater than friendship that we feel for each other," he said, presently, thrusting the probe of a new hope into the tortured wound.

"Yes?" she spoke faintly, with averted face.

"Something more--a stronger tie, a closer bond. Unorna, do you believe in the migration of the soul throughout ages, from one body to another?"

"Sometimes," she succeeded in saying.

"I do not believe in it," he continued. "But I see well enough how men may, since I have known you. We have grown so intimate in these few weeks, we seem to understand each other so wholly, with so little effort, we spend such happy, peaceful hours together every day, that I can almost fancy our two selves having been together through a whole lifetime in some former state, living together, thinking together, inseparable from birth, and full of an instinctive, mutual understanding. I do not know whether that seems an exaggeration to you or not. Has the same idea ever crossed your mind?"

She said something, or tried to say something, but the words were inaudible; he interpreted them as expressive of a.s.sent, and went on, in a musing tone, as though talking quite as much to himself as to her.

"And that is the reason why it seems as though we must be more than friends, though we have known each other so short a time. Perhaps it is too much to say."

He hesitated, and paused. Unorna breathed hard, not daring to think of what might be coming next. He talked so calmly, in such an easy tone, it was impossible that he could be making love. She remembered the vibrations in his voice when, a month ago, he had told her his story.

She remembered the inflection of the pa.s.sionate cry he had uttered when he had seen the shadow of Beatrice stealing between them, she knew the ring of his speech when he loved, for she had heard it. It was not there now. And yet, the effort not to believe would have been too great for her strength.

"Nothing that you could say would be--" she stopped herself--"would pain me," she added, desperately, in the attempt to complete the sentence.

He looked somewhat surprised, and then smiled.

"No. I shall never say anything, nor do anything, which could give you pain. What I meant was this. I feel towards you, and with you, as I can fancy a man might feel to a dear sister. Can you understand that?"

In spite of herself she started. He had but just said that he would never give her pain. He did not guess what cruel wounds he was inflicting now.

"You are surprised," he said, with intolerable self-possession. "I cannot wonder. I remember to have very often thought that there are few forms of sentimentality more absurd than that which deceives a man into the idea that he can with impunity play at being a brother to a young and beautiful woman. I have always thought so, and I suppose that in whatever remains of my indolent intelligence I think so still. But intelligence is not always so reliable as instinct. I am not young enough nor foolish enough either, to propose that we should swear eternal brother-and-sisterhood--or perhaps I am not old enough, who can tell? Yet I feel how perfectly safe it would be for either of us."

The steel had been thrust home, and could go no farther. Unorna's unquiet temper rose at his quiet declaration of his absolute security.

The colour came again to her cheek, a little hotly, and though there was a slight tremor in her voice when she spoke, yet her eyes flashed beneath the drooping lids.

"Are you sure it would be safe?" she asked.

"For you, of course there can be no danger possible," he said, in perfect simplicity of good faith. "For me--well, I have said it. I cannot imagine love coming near me in any shape, by degrees or unawares.

It is a strange defect in my nature, but I am glad of it since it makes this pleasant life possible."

"And why should you suppose that there is no danger for me?" asked Unorna, with a quick glance and a silvery laugh. She was recovering her self-possession.

"For you? Why should there be? How could there be? No woman ever loved me, then why should you? Besides--there are a thousand reasons, one better than the other."

"I confess I would be glad to hear a few of them, my friend. You were good enough just now to call me young and beautiful. You are young too, and certainly not repulsive in appearance. You are gifted, you have led an interesting life--indeed, I cannot help laughing when I think how many reasons there are for my falling in love with you. But you are very rea.s.suring, you tell me there is no danger. I am willing to believe."

"It is safe to do that," answered the Wanderer with a smile, "unless you can find at least one reason far stronger than those you give. Young and pa.s.sably good-looking men are not rare, and as for men of genius who have led interesting lives, many thousands have been pointed out to me.

Then why, by any conceivable chance, should your choice fall on me?"

"Perhaps because I am so fond of you already," said Unorna, looking away lest her eyes should betray what was so far beyond fondness. "They say that the most enduring pa.s.sions are either born in a single instant, or are the result of a treacherously increasing liking. Take the latter case. Why is it impossible, for you or for me? We are slipping from mere liking into friendship, and for all I know we may some day fall headlong from friendship into love. It would be very foolish no doubt, but it seems to me quite possible. Do you not see it?"

The Wanderer laughed lightly. It was years since he had laughed, until this friendship had begun.

"What can I say?" he asked. "If you, the woman, acknowledge yourself vulnerable, how can I, the man, be so discourteous as to a.s.sure you that I am proof? And yet, I feel that there is no danger for either of us."

"You are still sure?"

"And if there were, what harm would be done?" he laughed again. "We have no plighted word to break, and I, at least, am singularly heart free.

The world would not come to an untimely end if we loved each other.

Indeed, the world would have nothing to say about it."

"To me, it would not," said Unorna, looking down at her clasped hands.

"But to you--what would the world say, if it learned that you were in love with Unorna, that you were married to the Witch?"

"The world? What is the world to me, or what am I to it? What is my world? If it is anything, it consists of a score of men and women who chance to be spending their allotted time on earth in that corner of the globe in which I was born, who saw me grow to manhood, and who most inconsequently arrogate to themselves the privilege of criticising my actions, as they criticise each other's; who say loudly that this is right and that is wrong, and who will be gathered in due time to their insignificant fathers with their own insignificance thick upon them, as is meet and just. If that is the world I am not afraid of its judgments in the very improbable case of my falling in love with you."

Unorna shook her head. There was a momentary relief in discussing the consequences of a love not yet born in him.

"That would not be all," she said. "You have a country, you have a home, you have obligations--you have all those things which I have not."

"And not one of those which you have."

She glanced at him again, for there was a truth in the words which hurt her. Love, at least, was hers in abundance, and he had it not.

"How foolish it is to talk like this!" she exclaimed. "After all, when people love, they care very little what the world says. If I loved any one"--she tried to laugh carelessly--"I am sure I should be indifferent to everything or every one else."

"I am sure you would be," a.s.sented the Wanderer.

"Why?" She turned rather suddenly upon him. "Why are you sure?"

"In the first place because you say so, and secondly because you have the kind of nature which is above common opinion."

"And what kind of nature may that be?"

"Enthusiastic, pa.s.sionate, brave."

"Have I so many good qualities?"

"I am always telling you so."

"Does it give you pleasure to tell me what you think of me?"

"Does it pain you to hear it?" asked the Wanderer, somewhat surprised at the uncertainty of her temper, and involuntarily curious as to the cause of the disturbance.

"Sometimes it does," Unorna answered.

"I suppose I have grown awkward and tactless in my lonely life. You must forgive me if I do not understand my mistake. But since I have annoyed you, I am sorry for it. Perhaps you do not like such speeches because you think I am flattering you and turning compliments. You are wrong if you think that. I am sincerely attached to you, and I admire you very much. May I not say as much as that?"

"Does it do any good to say it?"

"If I may speak of you at all I may express myself with pleasant truths."

"Truths are not always pleasant. Better not to speak of me at any time."