Still she smiled that heart-breaking smile, nodding her head, however, as though to confirm my cheerful words. Then came my burst of confidence. "If you were not to come back quite well," said I, in a low voice, "I think, Joyce, I should die. It's all my fault."
At that she spoke. She did not seem surprised at my words, but only anxious to deny them so as to remove any pain of my self-reproach.
"Oh no, no, Meg," she said, softly. "Not your fault, dear. Things like that are never any one's fault."
She thought I only meant that my love for Harrod had stood in the way of her accepting his, because she, brave and unselfish in what I used to call her coldness, would have given him up to me.
But I couldn't let her think that I had meant only that. "Joyce," said I, firmly, "if it hadn't been for me, Trayton Harrod would have married you."
I saw that the name hurt her like the lash of a whip. "Oh, don't, don't!" she murmured, with pain in her eyes.
"I beg your pardon," said I, humbly, "but I must tell you. I can't let you go away without telling you the truth. O Joyce, my poor, dear Joyce, however much it pains you I must tell you. I don't mean only what you think. I don't mean only that I didn't go away, that I didn't behave as generously towards you as you would have done towards me. I mean—O Joyce, how can I tell you? But I was mad with jealousy, and I told him that you loved Frank. I sent him away from you." I had hurried the words out without preparation, I was so afraid of being interrupted—and now I was frightened.
Every drop of the blood that was left in that poor, wan face fled from it. I thought she was going to faint, but she stood firm, only her eyes seemed to turn to stone, to see nothing.
"O Joyce, darling, don't look like that!" cried I, in an agony. "Speak to me. Say something."
She closed her hand over mine, and her lips moved, but I could not hear a word.