Pacey’s brow wrinkled so that he looked ten years older, and he sat for some time with his eyes averted.
At last he spoke.
“I know what I ought to say to you as your friend.”
“Yes; what?” she cried eagerly; but Pacey shook his head.
“Nothing but—be strong and bear your cruel disappointment like a true woman, proud of her dignity.”
“I could bear all that,” she said piteously, “even if it broke my heart, but I cannot bear the knowledge that the boy with whom I walked hand in hand as a child, grew up with as if he were my own brother, and whose child-love ripened into a sincere affection, should drift away like this. Mr Pacey—this woman! I know how beautiful she is, and how she has ensnared him. I ceased to wonder when we stood face to face. I know too what influence she has, but nothing but horror and misery can result from it all, and it cuts me to the heart to think of what he will suffer—of the bitter repentance to come.”
Pacey sighed.
“To me, night and day, it is as if he were drowning—being swept away; and if—utterly worn out—I sleep for a few minutes, I wake up with a start, for his hands seem to be stretched out to me to save him before it is too late.”
Pacey was silent still as he sat with his arms resting upon his knees, and his head bent, gazing at the carpet.
At last he looked up, to meet her appealing eyes fixed on his.