“I never hated you,” Grace repeated without heeding his question. “I never liked you, and I never was afraid to show it. But I respect you—no, do not interrupt—I respect you, more than I did, because I have found out that you have more heart than I had believed. I admire you as everybody admires you, for what you do so well. And I am sorry for you, more sorry than I can tell. If you would have my friendship, I would offer it to you—indeed you have it already, from to-day.”
“I am deeply indebted to you,” George answered very coldly.
“You need not even make a show of thanking me. I have done you no service, and I should regret it very much if Constance married you. Do not look surprised. My only virtue is honesty, and when I have such things to say you think that is no virtue at all. I thought very badly of you once. Forgive me, if you can. I have changed my mind. I have neither said nor done anything for a long time to influence my sister, not for nearly a year. Do you believe me?”
George was beginning to be very much surprised at Grace’s tone. He was too much under the influence of a great emotion to reason with himself, but the truthfulness of her manner spoke to his heart. If she had condoled with him, or tried to comfort him, he would have been disgusted, but her straightforward confession of her own feelings produced a different effect.
“I believe you,” he said, wondering how he could sincerely answer such a statement with such words.
“Thank you, you are generous.” Grace rose again, and put out her hand. “Do you care to see her, before you go?” she asked, looking into his eyes. “I will send her to you, if you wish it.”
“Yes,” George answered, after a moment’s hesitation. “I will see her—please.”
He was left alone for a few minutes. Though the sun was streaming in through the window, he felt cold as he had never felt cold in his life. His anger had, he believed, subsided, but the sensation it had left behind was new and strange to him. He turned as he stood and his glance fell upon Constance’s favourite chair, the seat in which she had sat so often and so long while he had talked with her. Then he felt a sudden pain, so sharp that it might have seemed the last in life, and he steadied himself by leaning on the table. It was as though he had seen the fair young girl lying dead in that place she loved. But she was not dead. It was worse. Then his great wrath surged up again, sending the blood tingling through his sinewy frame to the tips of his strong fingers, and bringing a different mood with it, and a sterner humour. He was a very masculine man, incapable of being long crushed by any blow. He was sorry, now, that he had asked to see her. Had he felt thus five minutes earlier, he would have declined Grace’s offer and would have left the house, meaning never to re-enter it. But it was too late and he could no longer avoid the meeting.
At that moment the door opened, and Constance stood before him. Her face was pale and there were traces of tears upon her cheeks. But he was not moved to pity by any such outward signs of past emotion. She came and stood before him, and laid one delicate hand upon his sleeve, looking up timidly to his eyes. He did not move, and his expression did not change.
“Can you forgive me?” she asked in a trembling voice.