While her father spoke, Blanche had stood by with bent head and downcast eyes; at this direct question she looked up for a moment.
“I thought I did care for him just at the time,” she faltered. “It—it was a mistake.”
“Why, then, did you not write and tell him so? It was the least you could have done,” said her father.
“It was such a difficult letter to write,” she faltered. “I kept on putting it off, and hoping that he, too, would find out his mistake. And then sometimes I thought I could explain it all better to him if he came.”
Frithiof made a step or two forward; his face was pale and rigid; the blue seemed to have died out of his eyes—they looked like steel. “I wait for your explanation,” he said, in a voice which, in spite of its firmness, betrayed intense agitation.
Mr. Morgan without a word quitted the room, and the two were left alone. Again there was a long, expressive silence. Then, with a sob, Blanche turned away, sinking down on an ottoman and covering her face with her hands. Her tears instantly melted Frithiof; his indignation and wounded pride gave pace to love and tenderness; a sort of wild hope rose in his mind.
“Blanche! Blanche!” he cried. “It isn’t true! It can’t be all over! Others have been urging you to make some grand marriage—to be the wife perhaps of some rich nobleman. But he can not love you as I love you. Oh! have you forgotten how you told me I might trust to you? There is not a moment since then that you have not been in my thoughts.”
“I hoped so you would forget,” she sobbed.
“How could I forget? What man could help remembering you day and night? Oh, Blanche, don’t you understand that I love you? I love you!”
“I understand only too well,” she said, glancing at him, her dark eyes brimming over with tears.