and rebellious, it gave no hint of yielding to any weapon that he had yet employed.
"I'm not going to speak of your pride, but of your incredible meanness," said he.
"What?" cried Cecily, rudely startled and sitting bolt upright.
"There's no harm in plain speaking, since we're going to part. Of your extraordinary meanness, Cecily—and really it's not generally a fault of the Tristrams."
"Perhaps you'll explain yourself," she said, relapsing into cold disdain, and leaning back again.
"I will. I mean to. Just look at the history of the whole affair." He rose and stood opposite her, constraining her to look at him, although her attitude professed a lofty indifference. "Here was I—in possession! I was safe. I knew I was safe. I was as convinced of my safety as I am even now—when it's beyond question. Was I frightened? Ask Mina, ask Duplay. Then you came. You know what I did. For your sake, because you were what you are, because I had begun to love you—yes, that's the truth of it—I gave it all to you. Not this place only, but all I had. Even my name—even my right to bear any name. Nobody and nameless, I went out of this house for you."
He paused a little, took a pace on the grass, and returned to her.
"What ought you to have felt, what ought you to have prayed then?" he asked. "Surely that it should come back to me, that it should be mine again?"
"I did," she protested, stirred to self-defence. "I was miserable. You know I was. I couldn't stay here for the thought of you. I came to London. I came to you, Harry. I offered it to you."
"It's you who are deceiving yourself now. Yes, you