I suddenly realized the appalling truth. My own weakness was responsible for it all. I had not told Harley of my interview and her promise, feeling that it was not necessary, and fearing its effect upon his pride.
“I may add,” she said, quietly, “that I am bitterly disappointed in your friend. I was interested in him, and believed in him. Most of my acts of rebellion—if you can call me rebellious—were prompted by my desire to keep him true to his creed; and I will tell you what I have never told to another: I regarded Stuart Harley almost as an ideal man, but this has changed it all. If he was what I thought him, he could not have acted with so little conscience as to try to force this match upon me, when he must have known that I did not love Henry Dunning.”
“He didn’t know,” I said.
“He should have been sure before providing for the ceremony, after hearing what I had promised you I would and would not do,” said Marguerite.
“But—I never told him anything about your promise!” I shouted, desperately. “He has done all this unwittingly.”
“Is that true? Didn’t you tell him?” she cried, eagerly grasping my hand. Her manner left no doubt in my mind as to who the hero of her choice would be—and again I sighed to think that it was not I.
“As true as that I stand here,” I said. “I never told him.”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“Oh, well, you know what I mean!” I said, excitedly. “Wherever I do stand, it’s as true as that I stand there.”
The phrase was awkward, but it fulfilled its purpose.