He drew back, terribly hurt. His love deserved a better answer than this, and he knew it. He had spoken from the depth of his heart, and thus he had a right to expect a less indignant rejection. But the next moment pity overcame his anger. She had flung herself into a chair and buried her face on the table, in an attitude so despairing that he forgot himself. He walked quickly to the window and back, then Thérèse heard his voice, changed, but with a tone in it which thrilled through her.
“At least let me be your friend. Tell me how I have troubled you.”
She was hardly conscious of speaking. Perhaps some quickened perception awoke in him in the pain of that moment, and her lips must have framed the name, for he repeated the word “Fabien,” under his breath; and then there came a silence, which seemed to her endless.
She looked up at last. He had dropped into a chair opposite to her; his face was very pale and stern. He breathed quickly. Almost involuntarily she said, “Do not be angry with me!”
“Why did I not know this before?” he asked abruptly.
“I thought you might have understood—I could not explain—the others knew,” she said, in a broken voice.
“Then your marriage is arranged?”
“Nothing is arranged,” she cried out quickly. “My uncle would not hear of it. He wanted Fabien to marry a lady who was noble, and had a large dot, and—there were other reasons—but this was one cause why they quarrelled. And it was after he had gone that he wrote those cruel words,” she said, her voice faltering.
Max rose up again, and came close to her. “My poor child,” he said, “how you must have suffered!” Then, as she was going to speak, he stopped her. “Listen. I do not pretend to tell you that this has not been a heavy shock. If I had but known—but I did not know, I have been ignorant, blundering, blind. You are the first woman I ever loved, and—but I do not blame you. Thérèse, remember that always, there is no one to blame but myself. We will forget all this, and have no more such mistakes, only I must always be your friend. I claim it as a right.”
There was a world of simple manliness, of tenderness, in his voice. Thérèse, who had expected reproaches and bitter words, was deeply moved by it. How had she misjudged this man! She had been prejudiced, blind, to the true nobility, which lay hid behind a somewhat blunt exterior; until this moment she had recognised nothing of it. She thought how strong he was, how able to protect, to teach her; her poor little weary heart longed for such a helper, even in the midst of its clinging to Fabien. Fabien himself seemed to lose something when she compared the two. For very weariness the conflict might perhaps have ended in Max Deshoulières’ favour, if he had chosen that it should do so.