Cheriton put his hand back and leant against the wall. He was beginning to feel the force of the blow. After a moment he raised his head, and looked at her again, with a face now pale and mournful.
“Oh, Ruth, is it indeed so? Have I nothing to hope—nothing even to remember? Did you never mean it—never?”
“I was so angry—so miserable that I was mad,” faltered Ruth. “I thought he was false to me.”
“So you took me in to make up for it?” said Cheriton roughly, his indignation again gaining ground. “Well, I should thank you for at last undeceiving me!”
He turned as if to go; but Ruth sobbed out, “I know it was very wrong, indeed I am sorry for you. I can never, never be happy, if you don’t forgive me.”
“What can you mean by forgiving?” said Cheriton bitterly. “I wish I had died before I knew this! You have deceived me and made a fool of me, while I thought you—I thought you—”
“Then,” cried Ruth, stung by the change of feeling his words implied, “you can tell them all about it if you will, and ruin me!”
“What!” exclaimed Cheriton, starting upright. “Is that what you can think possible? Is that why you are crying? You may be perfectly happy! The promise you had the prudence to exact has been unbroken. No! when I thought that I was dying, I told Alvar that you might be spared any shock. Neither he nor I are likely to speak of it further. I had better wish you good-morning.”
It was Cheriton whose love had been scorned, whose hopes had all been dashed to the ground in the last half-hour, and who had received a blow that had changed the world for him; but it had come in such a form that the injured self-respect struggled for self-preservation. The first effect on his clear, upright nature was incredulous anger, a sense of resistance, of shame and scorn, that, all-contending and half-suppressed, made him terrible to Ruth, whose self-deceit had expected quite another reception of her words. She had shrunk from the idea of giving him pain, had dreaded the confession of her own misdeeds; but she had indemnified her conscience to herself for ill-treating Cheriton by a sort of unnatural and unreal admiration of what she called his goodness; which seemed to her to render self-abnegation natural, if not easy, to him.
She, with her passionate feelings, her warm heart, might be forgiven for error; but he, since he was high-principled and religious, would surely make it easier for her, would stand in an ideal relation to her and tell her that “her happiness was dearer than his own.”