I raised my eyes.
"Knowing me thoroughly now--all my antecedents, all my responsibilities--having long known my faults, can you and I still be friends?"
"If Monsieur wants a friend in me, I shall be glad to have a friend in him."
"But a close friend I mean--intimate and real--kindred in all but blood. Will Miss Lucy be the sister of a very poor, fettered, burdened, encumbered man?"
I could not answer him in words, yet I suppose I did answer him; he took my hand, which found comfort, in the shelter of his. His friendship was not a doubtful, wavering benefit--a cold, distant hope--a sentiment so brittle as not to bear the weight of a finger: I at once felt (or thought I felt) its support like that of some rock.
"When I talk of friendship, I mean true friendship," he repeated emphatically; and I could hardly believe that words so earnest had blessed my ear; I hardly could credit the reality of that kind, anxious look he gave. If he really wished for my confidence and regard, and really would give me his--why, it seemed to me that life could offer nothing more or better. In that case, I was become strong and rich: in a moment I was made substantially happy. To ascertain the fact, to fix and seal it, I asked-"Is Monsieur quite serious? Does he really think he needs me, and can take an interest in me as a sister?"
"Surely, surely," said he; "a lonely man like me, who has no sister, must be but too glad to find in some woman's heart a sister's pure affection."
"And dare I rely on Monsieur's regard? Dare I speak to him when I am so inclined?"
"My little sister must make her own experiments," said he; "I will give no promises. She must tease and try her wayward brother till she has drilled him into what she wishes. After all, he is no inductile material in some hands."
While he spoke, the tone of his voice, the light of his now affectionate eye, gave me such a pleasure as, certainly, I had never felt. I envied no girl her lover, no bride her bridegroom, no wife her husband; I was content with this my voluntary, self-offering friend. If he would but prove reliable, and he looked reliable, what, beyond his friendship, could I ever covet? But, if all melted like a dream, as once before had happened--?
"Qu'est-ce donc? What is it?" said he, as this thought threw its weight on my heart, its shadow on my countenance. I told him; and after a moment's pause, and a thoughtful smile, he showed me how an equal fear--lest I should weary of him, a man of moods so difficult and fitful--had haunted his mind for more than one day, or one month.