Part 12 (2/2)

'What is the use of that now?' he replied, turning away from her.

He had thrown his thunderbolt, and he had nothing more to say. He had seen that he had not thrown it quite in vain, and he would have been contented to be away and back at Colmar. What more was there to be said?

She came to him very gently, very humbly, and just touched his arm with her hand. 'Do you mean, George, that you have continued to care for me--always?'

'Care for you? I know not what you call caring. Did I not swear to you that I would love you for ever and ever, and that you should be my own? Did I not leave this house and go away,--till I could earn for you one that should be fit for you,--because I loved you? Why should I have broken my word? I do not believe that you thought that it was broken.'

'By my G.o.d, that knows me, I did!' As she said this she burst into tears and fell on her knees at his feet.

'Marie,' he said, 'Marie;--there is no use in this. Stand up.'

'Not till you tell me that you will forgive me. By the name of the good Jesus, who knows all our hearts, I thought that you had forgotten me. O George, if you could know all! If you could know how I have loved you; how I have sorrowed from day to day because I was forgotten! How I have struggled to bear it, telling myself that you were away, with all the world to interest you, and not like me, a poor girl in a village, with no thing to think of but my lover!

How I have striven to do my duty by my uncle, and have obeyed him, because,--because,--because, there was nothing left. If you could know it all! If you could know it all!' Then she clasped her arms round his legs, and hid her face upon his feet.

'And whom do you love now?' he asked. She continued to sob, but did not answer him a word. Then he stooped down and raised her to her feet, and she stood beside him, very near to him with her face averted. 'And whom do you love now?' he asked again. 'Is it me, or is it Adrian Urmand?' But she could not answer him, though she had said enough in her pa.s.sionate sorrow to make any answer to such a question unnecessary, as far as knowledge on the subject might be required. It might suit his views that she should confess the truth in so many words, but for other purpose her answer had been full enough. 'This is very sad,' he said, 'sad indeed; but I thought that you would have been firmer.'

'Do not chide me again, George.'

'No;--it is to no purpose.'

'You said that I was--a curse to you?'

'O Marie, I had hoped,--I had so hoped, that you would have been my blessing!'

'Say that I am not a curse to you, George!'

But he would make no answer to this appeal, no immediate answer; but stood silent and stern, while she stood still touching his arm, waiting in patience for some word at any rate of forgiveness. He was using all the powers of his mind to see if there might even yet be any way to escape this great s.h.i.+pwreck. She had not answered his question. She had not told him in so many words that her heart was still his, though she had promised her hand to the Basle merchant.

But he could not doubt that it was so. As he stood there silent, with that dark look upon his brow which he had inherited from his father, and that angry fire in his eye, his heart was in truth once more becoming soft and tender towards her. He was beginning to understand how it had been with her. He had told her, just now, that he did not believe her, when she a.s.sured him that she had thought that she was forgotten. Now he did believe her. And there arose in his breast a feeling that it was due to her that he should explain this change in his mind. 'I suppose you did think it,' he said suddenly.

'Think what, George?'

'That I was a vain, empty, false-tongued fellow, whose word was worth no reliance.'

'I thought no evil of you, George,--except that you were changed to me. When you came, you said nothing to me. Do you not remember?'

'I came because I was told that you were to be married to this man.

I asked you the question, and you would not deny it. Then I said to myself that I would wait and see.' When he had spoken she had nothing farther to say to him. The charges which he made against her were all true. They seemed at least to be true to her then in her present mood,--in that mood in which all that she now desired was his forgiveness. The wish to defend herself, and to stand before him as one justified, had gone from her. She felt that having still possessed his love, having still been the owner of the one thing that she valued, she had ruined herself by her own doubts; and she could not forgive herself the fatal blunder. 'It is of no use to think of it any more,' he said at last. 'You have to become this man's wife now, and I suppose you must go through with it.'

'I suppose I must,' she said; 'unless--'

'Unless what?'

'Nothing, George. Of course I will marry him. He has my word. And I have promised my uncle also. But, George, you will say that you forgive me?'

'Yes;--I will forgive you.' But still there was the same black cloud upon his face,--the same look of pain,--the same glance of anger in his eye.

'O George, I am so unhappy! There can be no comfort for me now, unless you will say that you will be contented.'

'I cannot say that, Marie.'

'You will have your house, and your business, and so many things to interest you. And in time,--after a little time--'

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