BOOK VIII. SUNSET AND SUNRISE.
83. CHAPTER LXXXIII.
(continued)
"That was a wrong thing for you to say, that you would have
had nothing to try for. If we had lost our own chief good,
other people's good would remain, and that is worth trying for.
Some can be happy. I seemed to see that more clearly than ever,
when I was the most wretched. I can hardly think how I could have
borne the trouble, if that feeling had not come to me to make strength."
"You have never felt the sort of misery I felt," said Will;
"the misery of knowing that you must despise me."
"But I have felt worse--it was worse to think ill--" Dorothea
had begun impetuously, but broke off.
Will colored. He had the sense that whatever she said was uttered
in the vision of a fatality that kept them apart. He was silent
a moment, and then said passionately--
"We may at least have the comfort of speaking to each other
without disguise. Since I must go away--since we must always
be divided--you may think of me as one on the brink of the grave."
While he was speaking there came a vivid flash of lightning which lit
each of them up for the other--and the light seemed to be the terror
of a hopeless love. Dorothea darted instantaneously from the window;
Will followed her, seizing her hand with a spasmodic movement;
and so they stood, with their hands clasped, like two children,
looking out on the storm, while the thunder gave a tremendous crack
and roll above them, and the rain began to pour down. Then they
turned their faces towards each other, with the memory of his last
words in them, and they did not loose each other's hands.
"There is no hope for me," said Will. "Even if you loved
me as well as I love you--even if I were everything to you--
I shall most likely always be very poor: on a sober calculation,
one can count on nothing but a creeping lot. It is impossible
for us ever to belong to each other. It is perhaps base of me
to have asked for a word from you. I meant to go away into silence,
but I have not been able to do what I meant."
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