And between two sobs he asked her:
“What are you going to do?”
“As long as my father lives I shall help him. As long as Maurice needs me I shall stand by him. At my mother’s death-bed I promised that. Afterwards I’ll devote my strength to the unfortunate, to the old, or maybe to children that have lost their parents. Perhaps I’ll keep a school here for little poor children. I don’t know. I can’t tell now. I mustn’t try to hurry up the future. It will come of itself. You see, now you know all my secrets.”
“And I,” he murmured, “what will become of me? You’re thinking of comforting all wretchedness and you forget mine.”
“Raymond!”
“I am more unhappy than the poorest people there are. They at least have had no glimpse of happiness, but I have, and am cast down after having known joy.”
“No, Raymond, you must have no regrets for me. I was not meant for marriage. God has warned me of it, though it’s been a little hard. For you he has another wife in store, no doubt, who will make you happier than I could.”
“You’re like no other woman, Margaret. You’re not the kind one forgets. You’re not the kind one can replace.”
Darkness was coming into the drawing-room with the waning day, and in the shadow, where the outlines of her black dress were dimmed, the girl’s face shone forth like a last remnant of the light, a light which scarcely animated her pale features. It was as if in touching her cheek one should fear to feel, instead of living warmth, the chill of marble in them.
‘Yes,“ she said, ”you will forget me. You must, and besides, I wish it.”