"Nay, Marjorie," he said, and he grew rigid again in self-control; "tell me what was in your mind. I will not vex you—I will claim nothing; only tell me—tell me," he entreated.
Marjorie, looking into her memory, searched in vain for something that would meet this demand. A vague memory of her mother's words about marriage and Mr. Warde, mingled with the Duchess's conversation at the Deanery; a recollection of the constant coupling of Charity's name with that of Mr. Pelham; a tired feeling that she had been worsted in a struggle, and could no longer fight; a yearning for comfort in some undefined sorrow, to which she could give no name—a sense of irrevocableness, of emptiness, of ineffable longing. This is what Marjorie felt, and from which she turned, as human nature will turn from a hurt to which experience can give no cure.
"I do not think—I do not know whether it is love," she said at last. The man winced unconsciously at the icy aloofness of the girlish voice. "But—if—you—care——" The words fell sighingly from her lips.
"If I care?" he repeated slowly, and his voice was as cold as hers in the effort at repression; "if I care? Marjorie, I care so much that to make you happy, to win your love, I would give my life. My darling"—he paused—"how dear—how dear—I cannot make you understand. You shall never regret—never!"
He looked down for a second at the bowed white face, so unlike the face of a happy girl hearing her lover tell that she is beloved, and said softly:
"You will like to be alone; I will go. Do not think of me in any other way than as just your old friend, until—until you give it me willingly. I will claim nothing more."
CHAPTER IX.
MISSING!
"What's he been doin', Margie?"