Her first impulse had been to object, but her vanity, her love of art, her love of power—all were touched.
At the same time she was curious now as to whether he had merely expected to take her as his mistress or to wait until he could honor her as his wife.
“I suppose you are wondering whether I ever expected to marry you or not,” he went on, getting the thought out of her mind.
“I am no different from many men in that respect, Berenice.
I will be frank.
I wanted you in any way that I could get you.
I was living in the hope all along that you would fall in love with me—as I had with you.
I hated Braxmar here, not long ago, when he appeared on the scene, but I could never have thought of interfering.
I was quite prepared to give you up.
I have envied every man I have ever seen with you—young and old.
I have even envied your mother for being so close to you when I could not be.
At the same time I have wanted you to have everything that would help you in any way.
I did not want to interfere with you in case you found some one whom you could truly love if I knew that you could not love me.
There is the whole story outside of anything you may know.
But it is not because of this that I came to-day. Not to tell you this.”
He paused, as if expecting her to say something, though she made no comment beyond a questioning
“Yes?”
“The thing that I have come to say is that I want you to go on as you were before.
Whatever you may think of me or of what I have just told you, I want you to believe that I am sincere and disinterested in what I am telling you now.
My dream in connection with you is not quite over.
Chance might make me eligible if you should happen to care.
But I want you to go on and be happy, regardless of me.
I have dreamed, but I dare say it has been a mistake.
Hold your head high—you have a right to.
Be a lady.
Marry any one you really love.
I will see that you have a suitable marriage portion.
I love you, Berenice, but I will make it a fatherly affection from now on.
When I die I will put you in my will.
But go on now in the spirit you were going before.
I really can’t be happy unless I think you are going to be.”
He paused, still looking at her, believing for the time being what he said.
If he should die she would find herself in his will.
If she were to go on and socialize and seek she might find some one to love, but also she might think of him more kindly before she did so.
What would be the cost of her as a ward compared to his satisfaction and delight in having her at least friendly and sympathetic and being in her good graces and confidence?
Berenice, who had always been more or less interested in him, temperamentally biased, indeed, in his direction because of his efficiency, simplicity, directness, and force, was especially touched in this instance by his utter frankness and generosity.
She might question his temperamental control over his own sincerity in the future, but she could scarcely question that at present he was sincere.
Moreover, his long period of secret love and admiration, the thought of so powerful a man dreaming of her in this fashion, was so flattering.
It soothed her troubled vanity and shame in what had gone before.
His straightforward confession had a kind of nobility which was electric, moving.
She looked at him as he stood there, a little gray about the temples—the most appealing ornament of some men to some women—and for the life of her she could not help being moved by a kind of tenderness, sympathy, mothering affection.
Obviously he did need the woman his attitude seemed to show that he needed, some woman of culture, spirit, taste, amorousness; or, at least, he was entitled to dream of her.
As he stood before her he seemed a kind of superman, and yet also a bad boy—handsome, powerful, hopeful, not so very much older than herself now, impelled by some blazing internal force which harried him on and on.
How much did he really care for her?
How much could he?
How much could he care for any one?
Yet see all he had done to interest her.
What did that mean?
To say all this?
To do all this?