“All changed? All? You take it for granted that all has changed? that nothing is as you left it? that no one--no feeling remains unchanged?”
She was looking up at him as he stood gazing out of the window.
“Everything has changed for me. I don't know why I came back. I tell you, Agnes, the very sight of the things that were familiar to me long ago only increases my sense of loss--my feeling that nothing here can ever be the same to me.”
“What! that nothing--nothing--can ever be the same to you?”
“You do not think it possible that it is you and you only who have changed?”
“What? Is it possible that you do not see that it is because my affection has not changed through all these years I am miserable to-day!”
“Is it possible that you know me so imperfectly as to fancy that my affection for my brother would decrease during the years of our separation? Ah, I thought you would take it for granted that I was differently constituted. I fancied that you would understand what my affection meant.”
“And have you found that I did you wrong?”
“You wrong me if you suggest--I do not say that you did actually go so far--that my affection for my brother could ever change.”
“I do not suggest that your affection--your affection for your brother--has changed. Oh, believe me, you have all my sympathy. I have felt times without number, after it was known that you were alive, that your home-coming would be cruel. I knew what a blow it would be to you to receive the news of poor Dick. I hoped that my sympathy--Ah, you must be assured that I feel for your suffering, with all my heart.”
“I am sure of it,” said he, taking for a moment the hand that she offered him. “If I had not been assured of it, should I be here to-day? I do not underrate the value of sympathy. I have felt better for the sympathy even of strangers. At Uganda--at Zanzibar--everywhere I got kind words; and aboard the steamer--God knows whether I should have landed or not if it had not been for the kind way some of my fellow passengers treated me. Ah! the world holds some good people! They took me out of myself--they made the world seem brighter--well, not brighter, but at least they made it seem less dark to me. When we separated in London yesterday the darkness seemed to fall upon me again. Ah, yes! I have felt what was meant by real sympathy; and yours is real, Agnes. I remember how good you were long ago. If you had been my sister you could not have taken a greater interest in me. And your father--ah, he died years ago, they told me last evening! You see, you were the first person for whom I inquired.”