took it, and intoxicated by those superb eyes, ventured to press it tenderly. A mild wonder took possession of Eva's mind that anybody so very young could have developed such an astonishing amount of impudence, but she did not resent the pressure. What did she care about having her hand squeezed when it was a question of seeing Ernest?
Poor deluded cherub!
CHAPTER IV
AFTER MANY DAYS
Within an hour of the departure of Lieutenant Jasper, Eva heard a fly draw up at the door. Then came an interval and the sound of two people walking up the steps, one of whom stumbled a good deal; then a ring.
"Is Mrs. Plowden at home?" said a clear voice, the well-remembered tones of which sent the blood to her head and then back to her heart with a rush.
"Yes, sir."
"Oh! Wait here, flyman. Now, my good girl, I must ask you to give me your hand, for I am not in a condition to find my way about strange places."
Another pause, and the drawing-room opened, and the maid came in, leading Ernest, who wore a curious, drawn look upon his face.
"How do you do?" she said, in a low voice, coming and taking him by the hand. "That will do, Jane."
He did not speak till the door closed; he only looked at her with those searching blind eyes.
Thus they met again after many years.
She led him to a sofa, and he sat down.
"Do not leave go of my hand," he said quickly; "I have not yet got used to talking to people in the dark."
She sat down on the sofa beside him, feeling frightened and yet happy. For awhile they remained silent; apparently they could find nothing to say, and, after all, silence seemed most fitting. She had never thought to sit hand in hand with him again. She looked at him; there was no need to keep a guard over her loving glances, for he was blind. At length she broke the silence.
"Were you surprised to get my message?" she asked, gently.
"Yes; it was like getting a message from the dead. I never expected to see you again. I thought that you had quite passed out of my life."
"So you had forgotten me?"
"Why do you say such a thing to me? You must know Eva, that it is impossible for me to forget you; I almost wish that it were possible. I meant that you had passed out of my outward life, for out of my mind you can never pass."
Eva hung her head and was silent though his words sent a thrill of happiness through her. So she had not quite lost him after all.
"Listen, Eva," Ernest went on, gathering himself together, and speaking sternly enough now, with a strange suppressed energy that frightened her. "How you came to do what you have done you best know."
"It is done; do not let us speak of it. I was not altogether to blame," she broke in.
"I was not going to speak of it. But I was going to say this, now while I have the chance, because time is short, and I think it right that you should know the truth. I was going to tell you first that for what you have done I freely forgive you."
"O Ernest!"
"It is," he went on, not heeding her, "a question that you can settle with your conscience and your God. But I wish to tell you what it is that you have done. You have wrecked my life, and made it an unhappy thing; you have taken that from me which I can never have to give again; you have embittered my mind, and driven me to sins of which I should not otherwise have dreamed. I loved you, and you gave me proofs that I could not doubt that I had won your love. You let me love you. Then when the hour of trial came you deserted and morally destroyed me, and the great and holy affection that should have been the blessing of my life has become its curse."
Eva covered her face with her hands and sat silent.
"You do not answer me, Eva," he said presently, with a little laugh. "Perhaps you find what I have to say difficult to answer, or perhaps you think I am taking a liberty."
"You are very hard," she murmured.
"Had you not better wait till I have done before you call me hard? If I wished to be hard, I should tell you that I no longer cared for you, that my prevailing feeling towards you was one of contempt. It would, perhaps, mortify you to think that I had shaken off such heavy chains. But it is not the truth, Eva. I love you now, as I always have loved you, as I always shall love you. I hope for nothing, I ask for nothing; in this business it has always been my part to give, not to receive. I despise myself for it, but so it is."
She laid her hand upon his shoulder. "Spare me, Ernest," she whispered.
"I have very little more to say, only this: I believe all that I have given you has not been given uselessly. I believe that the love of the flesh will die with the flesh. But my love for you has been something more and higher than that, or how has it loved without hope, and in spite of its dishonour, through so many years? It is of the spirit, and I believe that its life will be like that of the spirit, unending, and that when this hateful existence is done with I shall in some way reap its fruits with you."
"Why do you believe that, Ernest? It seems too happy to be true."
"Why do I believe it? I cannot tell you. Perhaps it is nothing but the fantasy of a mind broken down with brooding on its grief. In trouble we grow towards the light--like a plant in the dark, you know. As a crushed flower smells sweet, so all that is most aspiring in human nature is called into life when God lays His heavy hand upon us. Heaven is sorrow's sole ambition. No, Eva, I do not know why I believe it--certainly you have given me no grounds for faith--but I do believe it, and it comforts me. By the way, how did you know that I was here?"
"I passed you on the Hoe this morning, walking with Dorothy."
Ernest started. "I felt you pass," he said, "and asked Dorothy who it was. She said she did not know."
"She knew, but I made a sign to her not to say."
"Oh!"
"Ernest, will you promise me something?" asked Eva, wildly.
"What is it?"
"Nothing. I have changed my mind--nothing at all!"
The promise that she was about to ask was that he would not marry Dorothy, but her better nature rose in rebellion against it. Then they talked awhile of Ernest's life abroad.
"Well," said Ernest, rising after a pause, "good-bye, Eva."
"It is a very cruel world," she murmured.
"Yes, it is cruel, but not more cruel than the rest."
"It has been a happiness to see you, Ernest."
He shrugged his shoulders as he answered. "Has it? For myself I am not sure if it has been a happiness or a misery. I must have a year or two of quiet and darkness to think it over before I make up my mind. Will you kindly ring the bell for the servant to take me away?"
Half unconsciously, she obeyed him. Then she came and took his hand, looking with all her eyes and all her soul into his face. It was fortunate that he could not see her.
"O Ernest, you are blind!" she said, scarcely knowing what she said.
He laughed--a hard little laugh. "Yes, Eva, /I/ am blind now as /you/ have been always."
"Ernest! Ernest! how can I live without seeing you? /I love you!/" and she fell into his arms.
He kissed her once--twice, thrice, nor did he kiss alone. Then, he never knew how, he found the strength to put her from him. Perhaps it was because he heard the servant coming.
Next moment she came and led him away.
As soon as he was gone Eva flung herself down on the sofa and sobbed as though