"You must surely know that it is not really so," he added.
And then I snatched away my hand.
"I know nothing of the kind," I said, fiercely. "You said you would help me whenever I came to you, but you did not mean it. Now that I come to ask you, you will not help me. But I will help myself, I will help Joyce. I will write to Frank, and tell him that he must come back to her. I don't care what he thinks of me—what any one thinks of me. You are cruel, you are all of you cruel; but I do not believe that he will be cruel."
"No, I am not cruel," answered the squire. "I am only doing what is right—what I believe to be best for your sister."
"Yes, you are cruel," cried I, beside myself. "You are all of you cruel and selfish. Mother is cruel too. I know why she is cruel—it is because she wants Joyce to marry you. And I know why you are cruel—it is because you want to marry Joyce."
Oh that the darkness might have come, might have come quickly and at once, to cover the blush of shame that rose to my brow! Oh that the great window would have opened, that I might have rushed forth into the open air—away, away from everybody! How could I have been so unwomanly, so cowardly, so ungrateful?
I stood still—even to my heart—waiting for the squire to speak.
At last he said, in a voice that was not in the least angry, as I had expected it to be, but that sounded to me deep and far away, and quite unlike his own, "What made you say that?"
The voice was so gentle that it gave me courage to look up. If all the regret that was in my heart, and all the sorrow for having hurt him, rose into my eyes, they must have been very big and sorrowful that day.