“Dear Mr. Woodcourt,” said I, “before we part tonight, something is left for me to say. I never could say it as I wish—I never shall—but—”
I had to think again of being more deserving of his love and his affliction before I could go on.
“—I am deeply sensible of your generosity, and I shall treasure its remembrance to my dying hour. I know full well how changed I am, I know you are not unacquainted with my history, and I know what a noble love that is which is so faithful. What you have said to me could have affected me so much from no other lips, for there are none that could give it such a value to me. It shall not be lost. It shall make me better.”
He covered his eyes with his hand and turned away his head. How could I ever be worthy of those tears?
“If, in the unchanged intercourse we shall have together—in tending Richard and Ada, and I hope in many happier scenes of life—you ever find anything in me which you can honestly think is better than it used to be, believe that it will have sprung up from tonight and that I shall owe it to you. And never believe, dear dear Mr. Woodcourt, never believe that I forget this night or that while my heart beats it can be insensible to the pride and joy of having been beloved by you.”
He took my hand and kissed it. He was like himself again, and I felt still more encouraged.
“I am induced by what you said just now,” said I, “to hope that you have succeeded in your endeavour.”
“I have,” he answered. “With such help from Mr. Jarndyce as you who know him so well can imagine him to have rendered me, I have succeeded.”