“I confess,” said Beatrice, frankly, “that I thought your sudden departure had something to do with the conversation about me. I am very sorry indeed that I did you such a wrong; I might have known you better. Will you forgive me?”
Brandon smiled, faintly. “You are the one who must forgive.”
“But I hate my name so,” burst out Beatrice.
Brandon said nothing.
“Don’t you? Now confess.”
“How can I—” he began.
“You do, you do!” she cried, vehemently; “but I don’t care—for I hate it.”
Brandon looked at her with a sad, weary smile, and said nothing. “You are sick,” she said; “I am thoughtless. I see that my name, in some way or other, recalls painful thoughts. How wretched it is for me to give pain to others!”
Brandon looked at her appealingly, and said, “You give pain? Believe me! believe me! there is nothing but happiness where you are.”
At this Beatrice looked confused and changed the conversation. There seemed after this to be a mutual understanding between the two to avoid the subject of her name, and although it was a constant mortification to Beatrice, yet she believed that on his part there was no contempt for the name, but something very different, something associated with better memories.