"No—no—don't say you are sorry.... I have been precipitate, I know.... We are going to part now—and I felt I must speak—that I must tell you how different life has appeared to me since I came to know you well. I have never felt for any woman what I feel for you—"
"You should not say that," she interrupted, quickly. "It is enough that I know your story."
"And have you no pity for me, then? Can you not see how the great deception of my life turned all my feelings into gall, until I met you? Can you not understand my anxiety now for freedom—freedom, which I shall obtain in less than six months? Will you not—"
"Stay! Mr. Ferrars. Situated as you are, it is hardly showing much respect for me to use this language. But no matter. Understand me, once for all. If you were fifty times free, it would make no difference in my feelings towards you. I am sorry you have disturbed the pleasant terms on which we were."
"Will you hold out no hope? No possibility in the future?" he asked, in a low, husky voice.
She shook her head. "None, Mr. Ferrars; none."
"Fool!" he muttered; and, in his sudden passion, he broke the stick in his hand. "Why did I speak? Not from want of respect for you, believe me, but because we were going to part, and I resolved never to follow you—never to persecute you with my presence—unless I had a ray of hope. Just one ray was all I wanted. God! If you knew what it was to be utterly alone in the world, without a creature you care for, or who cares for you!" He flung the two pieces of stick among the trees. "That is all my life is worth now. I was insane enough to fancy it might begin again. That dream is ended. You will forgive me—won't you?"
She made no reply. Platitudes, good advice, were worse than useless at such a moment. Her transient indignation had given place to real sorrow for the man, but to express this would only add fuel to the fire. They had reached a point in the wood where two paths met. At the farther end of one she saw Mordaunt and Miss Planter. Their backs were towards her; they were in deep conversation, as they slowly paced along. Grace naturally chose the other path, and it was that which led back to the house. When they were yet some yards distant, she said,
"Let all this be forgotten between us; we have both made a mistake. But I hope, by and by, if we should meet again, that you will let me feel the same friendly regard for you that I did before—before you allowed yourself to speak to me of this foolish fancy, which I am sure will pass away."
"Never," he said, in a hoarse voice; "it will never pass away—but I promise—I swear to you that you shall not be troubled with this madness of mine again. Let us part here—I can't face all those people—God bless you! You are the best woman I have ever known, and for your sake I shall think better of humanity henceforward."