FORGIVE ME—I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT I WAS DOING. FOR I LOVE YOU, LOUISE—NO WOMAN HAS EVER BEEN LOVED AS YOU ARE. I KNOW IT IS FOLLY ON MY PART. I HAVE NOTHING TO OFFER YOU. BUT BE MY WIFE, AND I WILL WORK MY FINGERS TO THE BONE FOR YOU.
He went out into the summer night, and posted the letter. Returning to his room, he threw himself on the sofa, and fell into a heavy sleep, from which he did not wake till the morning was well advanced.
Work was out of the question that day, when he waited as if for a sentence of death. He paced his narrow room, incessantly, afraid to go out, for fear of missing her reply. The hours dragged themselves by, as it is their special province to do in crises of life; and with each one that passed, he grew more convinced what her answer to his letter would be.
It was late in the afternoon when the little boy she employed as a messenger, put a note into his hands.
COME TO ME THIS EVENING.
It was all but evening now; he went, just as he was, on the heels of the child.
The windows of her room were open. She sprang up to meet him, then paused. He looked desperately yet stealthily at her. The commiseration of the previous night was still in her face; but she was now quite sure of herself: she drew him to the sofa and made him sit down beside her. Then, however, for a few seconds, in which he waited with hammering pulses, she did not speak. The dull fear at his heart became a certainty; and, unable to bear the suspense any longer, he took one of her hands and laid it on his forehead.
Then she said: "Maurice—poor, foolish Maurice!—it is not possible. You see that yourself, I'm sure."
"Yes. I know quite well: it is presumption."
"Oh, I don't mean that. But there are so many reasons. And you, too, Maurice ... Look at me, and tell me if what you wrote was not just an attempt to make up for what happened last night." And as he did not reply, she added: "You mustn't make yourself reproaches. I, too, was to blame."