“Ah——” he murmured, his head drooping again, and his irresolute hand switching at the underbrush along the lane. But as Lily made a movement to pass on, he broke out with fresh vehemence: “Miss Bart, for God’s sake don’t turn from me! We used to be good friends—you were always kind to me—and you don’t know how I need a friend now.”
The lamentable weakness of the words roused a motion of pity in Lily’s breast. She too needed friends—she had tasted the pang of loneliness; and her resentment of Bertha Dorset’s cruelty softened her heart to the poor wretch who was after all the chief of Bertha’s victims.
“I still wish to be kind; I feel no ill-will toward you,” she said. “But you must understand that after what has happened we can’t be friends again—we can’t see each other.”
“Ah, you ARE kind—you’re merciful—you always were!” He fixed his miserable gaze on her. “But why can’t we be friends—why not, when I’ve repented in dust and ashes? Isn’t it hard that you should condemn me to suffer for the falseness, the treachery of others? I was punished enough at the time—is there to be no respite for me?”
“I should have thought you had found complete respite in the reconciliation which was effected at my expense,” Lily began, with renewed impatience; but he broke in imploringly: “Don’t put it in that way—when that’s been the worst of my punishment. My God! what could I do—wasn’t I powerless? You were singled out as a sacrifice: any word I might have said would have been turned against you——”
“I have told you I don’t blame you; all I ask you to understand is that, after the use Bertha chose to make of me—after all that her behaviour has since implied—it’s impossible that you and I should meet.”
He continued to stand before her, in his dogged weakness. “Is it—need it be? Mightn’t there be circumstances——?” he checked himself, slashing at the wayside weeds in a wider radius. Then he began again: “Miss Bart, listen—give me a minute. If we’re not to meet again, at least let me have a hearing now. You say we can’t be friends after—after what has happened. But can’t I at least appeal to your pity? Can’t I move you if I ask you to think of me as a prisoner—a prisoner you alone can set free?”
Lily’s inward start betrayed itself in a quick blush: was it possible that this was really the sense of Carry Fisher’s adumbrations?
“I can’t see how I can possibly be of any help to you,” she murmured, drawing back a little from the mounting excitement of his look.
Her tone seemed to sober him, as it had so often done in his stormiest moments. The stubborn lines of his face relaxed, and he said, with an abrupt drop to docility: “You WOULD see, if you’d be as merciful as you used to be: and heaven knows I’ve never needed it more!”